


kingslayer

by chii



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Possession, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-02-18 15:17:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13102947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chii/pseuds/chii
Summary: There's a ghost haunting Ignis.[Post-game AU, spoilers for end game + Episode Ignis.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Summary updated! Fic fully beta'd! Christmas over! I've extended this to four parts and will be uploading it intermittently over the next couple days. It's fully finished so there's no need to worry about it being discontinued/dropped. Full fic is about 27k or so, give or take after it's gone over and edited within an inch of its life. Many thanks to Kieran for giving it a look over and fixing so much of it for me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not hard enough, sometimes,” Ignis says wearily, draining his glass out of spite and foolishness. Gladiolus doesn’t object and a moment later there’s the sound of glass against glass as he pours a refill.
> 
> “It’s a wonder your eyes aren’t brown,” Gladiolus says and Ignis, torn between tired and the dull thrum of what he’s realizing is past buzz and into sleepily drunk, doesn’t understand. “You’re so full of shit they really ought to be.”
> 
> “There’s no need to be crass."

They hold a funeral when it’s all said and done.

Prompto thinks that they should wait; Insomnia is a mess and they haven’t even begun to near the first stage of preparations to begin rebuilding the capitol but they need to do something. Noctis was their king, their friend, but to everyone else out there, who only knew him through mentions in articles or on the radio, he was a figurehead. He brought back the light, he’s the Chosen King.

Or, he was.

So Ignis begins preparations for a funeral. Gladiolus tries to talk him out of it one night when Ignis has been bent over the desk for what apparently was nearly seven hours but feels like nothing. Everything seems to take three times longer without the aid of his eyes, and the text to speech program is, while functional, slow. Gladiolus doesn’t go so far as to say that a dead man can’t want a funeral but it’s there on the tip of his tongue, Ignis knows it. Thankfully, it’s less a fight and more Gladiolus looking at him for a long moment, clearly weighing his words before he shakes his head and gives up. _There’s no fighting you when you’re like this,_ he murmurs, and drags Ignis into a hug that’s startling at first but is warm and long and probably not just for Ignis’ sake.

He’s never planned a funeral before. Regis died and they were too far to do anything and he doesn’t think there was really much that could have been done had he been there. He knows the basics, fundamentally but this is a state funeral. There are countless books to read, things to acquaint himself with that he’s never had to think about before.

While Prompto, Talcott and Gladiolus start coordinating the hunters to turn their weapons in for building materials, Ignis turns to the list he’s put together for coordinating everything. There’s space enough in the city for a funeral - even one that is going to be as large as this.

It will take time to get the surrounding areas up to code, however. Much as everyone wishes that it would be an expedient process, there’s rubble to move and electricity to rewire from ten years of disrepair. Furthermore, it makes no sense to simply dump the debris and leftovers off in the middle of nowhere; they may as well sort it. Anything that can be reused is, glass melted down, stones pounded into grit to fill in potholes in the road until a better solution is presented or machinery to create these items is up and running again.

When the infrastructure is taken care of, then comes the finer points. Commissioning funeral outfits for all of them, restructuring the trade into the city so that the people moving in slowly but surely have access to food and then ensuring that there will be enough for the multitude of people due to visit.

It takes time, all of it. It feels as if time is moving slowly - if he thought that the ten years in the dark had gone desperately slow, these few months feel as if they take ages. They have to get power back to the entirety of the city first -- then comes sourcing tailors and caterers and a thousand other things that don’t move nearly as quickly as he’d like but are understandable given the state of the world.

Prompto and Gladiolus check in daily where they can; they see each other more these days than they have in the past few years and that sort of return to normal is welcome. They have dinner together once a week and update each other on the state of all of their projects some nights, or sit together silently others. Iris comes once; she’s been helping people get settled again, creating lists of refugee numbers, and forwarding them to Ignis and Gladiolus to try and coordinate with the supply chains they’ve set up.

Maybe if they have a funeral, all of this will feel more final. Maybe if there’s a proper grave that Ignis can visit and pay his respects at, he’ll feel less like all of this just...ended, like he’s still waiting for Noctis to come home. He hasn’t had any slip-ups as he did the first week; he hasn’t gone to Noctis’ room and knocked on his door, waiting for him to wake up only to realize Noctis wouldn’t need to be hassled into waking up on time ever again. When the realization had hit him, he’d turned abruptly and nearly run into Prompto in the massive hallway, despite all the room and lack of people. That had been one of the bad days; now, Ignis makes certain that no such mistakes happen. He seals off the king’s quarters as well as what used to be the prince’s; Gladiolus doesn’t approve and makes no secret of it, but it’s not as if anyone has any need to go in there, so sealed off they remain.

The death of a King doesn’t halt the rest of the country. Normally, that would be a relief. Currently, it proves to be a source of frustration as political matters normally addressed by a Council and dozens of other involved members fall to Ignis, Cor, Dustin and Monica alone. It’s chaotic at best, exhausting and demoralizing at worst. With Regis, Lunafreya, Ravus and Noctis dead, there’s a vacuum where the previous power structure used to be. There are no distant cousins to place on the throne, no one adequately equipped to handle anything so Ignis takes these tasks on where possible and delegates the rest with minimal complaint. He coordinates things like taxes so that they lower the further away they get from the city so people can begin rebuilding, and funnels extra money into the coffers by ensuring that their trade routes are secured between allies and they have an active commerce set up in the city. He’s no ruler, no king, but he spent his whole life utterly engrossed in the goings on at the center of all of it and was prepared to help Noctis through until he could no longer.

He can handle this.

Four months in and they’re nearing the funeral. There’s still no answer to who will rule, but thankfully it’s a question no one has been asking with any real intent for an answer; no one is exactly eager to step into those shoes when they’re so hard to fill so Ignis keeps moving forward.

Four months in and he thinks he’s adjusting as well as can be expected. He sleeps - not well and not often, but he does. He eats well - better than they did the last ten years now that there’s sunlight to grow fresh food. Agriculture became his focus in month two and blessedly, the land isn’t entirely ruined; crops grow well enough.

The problem is, four months in he should have accepted Noctis’ death with grace and composure. He should _not_ be hearing things that aren’t there but after the third time it happens he has to accept that maybe he’s not sleeping well enough.

When he’d been blinded, he had to learn how to recognize the steps of the others so he would stop being startled when they forgot to warn him about a hand on a shoulder, or coming too close. Prompto and Gladiolus can’t sneak up on him any longer and actively make sure they don’t, but one morning, when he’s standing in front of the mirror (habit more than anything else) and adjusting his collar, he hears footsteps inside his quarters. That alone would be concerning, but the gait isn’t Prompto, isn’t Gladio, isn’t any of the people who have started to slowly fill the capitol. It’s the steady step-click of Noctis’ boots and when he turns, groping out, there’s nothing there. Feeling foolish, he goes back to finishing up buttoning his shirt and leaves.

The second and third times are too much, however. There’s something wrong - he knows he hears it but there’s never anything there and it’s not the sort of trick anyone would dare play on him. Better to ignore it, then. It happens again and again but he stops acknowledging it and the footsteps always stop at a handful of steps. Nothing is ever there.

 

* * *

 

 

“They’re good,” Prompto says, kicking his legs back and forth where he sits; Ignis can hear the skid of rubber against metal on each pass. “I just-- how are you going to know if you get it right?”

Ignis hesitates where he’s rolling dough under the rolling pin in smooth, even strokes and then picks back up again because if he doesn’t do it all in one go the dough will be uneven. “I suppose we could always make another trip to Tenebrae. Maybe we’ll find the dessert that Noct spoke so highly of and I can acquire the actual recipe.”

The idea of a vacation is ridiculous, almost unheard of. There’s too much to do and very few people who have the capability to do it, but Ignis suggests it and Prompto and Gladiolus don’t object. They’ve been working non-stop these last ten years; if anything, they’re all owed a break of some sort, even if they know it likely won’t come any time soon.

“S’pose there’s diplomatic things we could take care of if we went out there,” Gladiolus says slowly, while Ignis starts cutting circles out of the dough, delicately placing each one in the tin just a few inches away. This would be easier with eyes that functioned, but it’s doable like this, by touch. Easier still when he has one of them helping out, measuring things and mixing them as instructed. “Iggy?”

“I feel as though ten years is time enough to justify a small excursion,” he allows, smiling to himself when Prompto whoops, smacking his palm on the table. “When things settle down enough to allow it, perhaps.”

They all know things aren’t going to settle any time soon, but it’s a nice goal to strive for, unreasonable as it is.

The desserts sit in the fridge once they’re done; only after dinner has been prepped and consumed does he bring them back out and let everyone dig in. Vanilla extract in the center and in the crust, a dash of cinnamon sprinkled over top. He’ll never know if it’s the right version, but it’s the thirty-fourth he’s created since they’ve established themselves here and it’s a habit that brings him some kind of peace, no matter how small. The differing versions are kept on a tablet, Ignis tracking each change he makes as if the person they’re for will ever be back to judge them. When all three of them gather around and try them, it’s almost like normal.

There aren’t many people who go into this kitchen, which makes it all the more perplexing when the next morning, Ignis wakes and reaches for one of them only to find that they’re one short. Perhaps one of the others got there first; he’ll simply have to make more.

 

* * *

 

 

“Yes, the flowers over there,” Ignis confirms, and pushes his glasses back up his nose when they start to feel as if they’re sliding down. He has to assume that the arrangement looks good as he’s not able able to check himself, but Prompto had seen them in a storefront on the way in one morning and talked to the woman running the place. He’d convinced her into the job and as far as Ignis can tell, she’s handled it marvelously. He’s had no complaints about her work ethic or organizational skills; all of the deadlines that he’s set have been met with room to spare and having someone so competent involved only makes the process easier.

For all that he can’t quite picture the flowers in his head, they do smell lovely. Prompto sidles over to talk to the woman as she starts arranging another bouquet, testing out how many they can fit on the massive banquet tables and despite himself, Ignis smiles. Some things never change and the way that Prompto is chatting with her and (from what he can tell) she is talking back, the interest may be returned. Better he leave them alone for this, then.

While that’s being handled, he moves onto the next table and pulls out the tablet to listen to the next item on the list. Distantly, he can hear the soft murmur of the two of them talking and then the louder sound of Prompto’s laughter. It’s been ages since he heard it - _actually_ heard it, without knowing it was faked, or too quiet to be truly happy. Abruptly, it’s like the air around him goes staticy; the hair on his arm stands up and he’s aware of something watching him, but Prompto and the florist are still talking. It’s this, again -- whatever this is. There’s the sound of footsteps, suddenly - the same footsteps, _Noctis’_ footsteps and Ignis straightens, willing them away, willing the sound of the computer reading him the list to drown them out.

There’s the faintest pressure against the small of his back - a hand, too small to be Gladiolus’ and Prompto is too far away for it to be him. When he stiffens further, sucking in a sharp breath, he thinks he smells leather and aftershave-- _no_. No, his mind is playing tricks on him and he won’t entertain the thought or the consideration. The air still feels charged around him, the way it did when Noctis gathered up the energy to warp somewhere, or the feeling of the ring on his finger, the air so thick it felt like wading through oil. Maybe it wasn’t enough that he was forced to have visions about Noctis’ impending death leading up to his sacrifice - maybe, whatever the ring did to him was still lingering, an effect that he’d never be able to shake. It wasn’t a comforting thought, knowing that the wound that was still gaping and tender was just going to have salt rubbed in it and for all he knew, it wasn’t something he could fix.

 _Iggy_ \--

It’s too much. He can forgive feeling or hearing things, because he’s had moments where his phone was in his pocket and he thought it was vibrating only for it to be a mistake, and the sound of footsteps could easily be chalked up to time - someone else might have the same gait as Noct and be wearing the same boots. There are a thousand reasonable explanations for it, but not one for why he can hear Noctis’ voice clear as day, saying his name like he’s trying to get his attention.

The tablet is scooped up and he makes his way out of the hall as quickly as possible before Prompto notices that something’s off. The sound of footsteps vanishes, and so does the pressure against his back. He doesn’t hear his name again, but the smell of Noctis’ aftershave lingers.

 

* * *

 

 

“You ever think that you’re pushing yourself too hard?” Gladiolus asks late that night when the two of them are still up despite the horrendous hour. Ignis has been nursing a third cup of whatever whisky Gladiolus had purchased - it’s smooth and spicy and burns pleasantly going down. He doesn’t drink much or often, but he feels as if he’s losing his mind and missing Noctis proves to be worse than missing his vision. Every time he wakes there’s a moment where he doesn’t remember - where for a moment, things are how they were years ago. He would wake early, head to the penthouse that Regis rented for Noctis and help get him to school. Then, everything sets in and he rolls out of bed, fumbles his glasses onto his face and pushes through the day with sheer determination.

“Not hard enough, sometimes,” Ignis says wearily, draining his glass out of spite and foolishness. Gladiolus doesn’t object and a moment later there’s the sound of glass against glass as he pours a refill.

“It’s a wonder your eyes aren’t brown,” Gladiolus says and Ignis, torn between tired and the dull thrum of what he’s realizing is past buzz and into sleepily drunk, doesn’t understand. “You’re so full of shit they really ought to be.”

“There’s no need to be crass,” Ignis murmurs, curling both of his hands around the glass, resting his temple against the broad wings of the chair he’s sitting in. “I’ve been delegating as asked. Half of my duties these days seem to be just delegation alone. I sleep at night. I eat well. I just--”

“You miss him.” Gladiolus’ voice is low, knowing in a way that Ignis finds he doesn’t want to confront or think about. They talked about it once, back when things weren’t quite as dire. Noctis was asleep in the hotel room, stretched out in bed, covers kicked off in his sleep. Ignis had gone to adjust them, folding them neatly in around his shoulders so he didn’t get cold while he rested; he'd lingered a moment too long. Looked a little too softly at his prince and Gladiolus had put everything together in that moment. “We all do, but it’s hitting you hardest, I think.”

They never really addressed it past that day; Gladiolus had led him down the alley to the shops so they could fetch what few provisions they needed and stopped them halfway down to grab Ignis by the arm. _You spend all your time thinking about what ifs and maybes and you’re going to run out of time. Do something for you and him while you both have time for it._

He never had. They had a duty - _he_ had a duty, a charge. Noctis had a destiny to fulfill and much as Ignis wanted to make sure that he would never have to go through with the entirety of it, he knew that they had to. Noctis had too much on his shoulders to deal with at that point; he didn’t need to try and consider how to balance Ignis’ feelings on top of the responsibilities as the Chosen King.

“Are you insinuating that the fact that I _miss_ him is causing these -- hallucinations?” Ignis asks with all the disdain and annoyance that he can muster in that moment, feeling foolish. It’s not, but that doesn't answer the question of what it is. “You’d be better off blaming it on my use of the ring.”

“No. I’m sayin’ that maybe you’re setting all of this up so a country can grieve but you haven’t even thought about how you’re going to. And I mean, maybe it’s the ring, too. Six knows we don’t understand it for shit. _Magic_.” The clink of glass on wood means he’s put his glass down and a moment later, there’s a large, rough hand on his arm, squeezing lightly. “C’mon, Iggy. Just...think about it. You’re gonna do what you’re going to do, but maybe when it’s all said and done, do something for yourself. If you can’t justify doing it for yourself, then think about how he’d want you to take care of yourself.”

It’s painfully, frustratingly insightful because Gladiolus knows him better than anyone else in the world these days. He doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close thing, his fingers going tighter around the glass, shame a hot flare inside him settling oily and uncomfortable in his stomach. Noctis would want him to take care of himself. Noctis would fuss over him, given half the chance, the moment he got wind of anything being wrong with Ignis. There’s no point in thinking about what _would_ have happened were Noctis alive, though; he very decidedly wasn’t, and Ignis was.

“I think that’s enough to drink for tonight,” Ignis says crisply and rises straight through sheer force of will, the alcohol making itself known in the way that he wobbles, hand groping for the back of his chair. This is why he doesn’t drink, he thinks disdainfully, but then Gladiolus has a hand at the small of his back and walks him back to his room silently. “Thank you for the company.”

“You’re welcome for that, and the advice you ain’t gonna take but should really think about,” Gladiolus mutters, untucking the sheets from where they’re folded tight into the bed in neat lines, going digging for Ignis’ pajamas which is wholly unnecessary but appreciated all the same. “If you’re hearing and feeling shit that isn’t there, maybe take some of your own advice. Take a morning off. Get a full night of sleep. Let us reach out to some of the folks who make a living studying all that stuff about the crystal and ring and all that woo-woo mystical shit, and maybe we figure out what’s going on with you.”

Maybe, maybe, maybe. It’s a lot of uncertainty and while Ignis appreciates the concern, it’s wholly unnecessary. If there were anyone who understood the ring well enough to help, Regis would have had them studying it to find a way to save his son; that much, Ignis is sure of. If he’s having any sort of residual effects, well, it’s a wonder he survived given Nyx’s untimely demise. There’d never been someone in his situation before and thus there was no research to be done around it. Plus, he didn’t quite relish the idea of being trotted about like a scientific specimen, or anyone knowing that he’d put the ring on to begin with. Better that they assume his loss of vision was a result of shrapnel at Altissia.

Getting ready for bed takes ten times longer when his fingers are slowed with alcohol and exhaustion, but somehow, he manages to get changed and washes up, barely remembering anything as he collapses into bed.

In the morning, he pays for his foolishness with a throbbing headache and dry mouth. Upon groping for his glasses, he frowns when he finds a glass of water, damp with condensation, and beside it, three oval pills. One of the others must have been in to take care of him - unexpectedly sweet. The covers have been pulled up to his shoulders as well despite him very clearly remembering falling asleep on top of them. It’s the kind of unnecessary kindness the other two would pull, but he doesn’t make any mention of it if they don’t. By the time he’s freshened up and rinsed the awful taste from his mouth, he’s had two cans of Ebony he snatched from the Citadel’s untouched reserves, painkillers, and hot oatmeal; it’s enough to make him feel human again so he heads down to the study he’s commandeered for the last few weeks to begin working again. Thankfully, maybe it’s the hangover acting as a shield or something else, but there are no more visions, no hallucinations. Just a day of work, and at the end of it, he collapses in bed again so he can do it all over again in the morning.

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you ever think about it?” Ignis asks late one night when he, Prompto and Gladiolus are up after an abominably long day, three days out from the final date of the funeral. “That our job was to keep him safe so ultimately he could sacrifice himself?”

Gladiolus- stretched out on the couch nursing a beer, turns to look at him. Ignis can picture it from years of being familiar with his face, knowing how to match expression to tone. His eyes are likely a little too bright, face a little too blank like he knows that he’s not going to like the question that Ignis is forcing himself to ask. “Prob’ly too much,” he mutters, lifting the bottle to examine how much remains, swallowing it in one go and reaching for another. The bottles clink as he jostles them. Ignis can picture every move perfectly. “He saved the world. We gotta believe that it was worth it in the end. He did.”

“It’s what he wanted,” Prompto points out, just as subdued as Gladiolus is. Ignis hears the chair creak as he shifts his weight, the jangle of metal on his pants as his foot taps a restless rhythm. “I mean, I don’t think he wanted to die, but...he knew what was gonna happen. Noct is a -- was, was a good guy. He wanted to do what was best for everyone, not just...us or himself.”

Ignis, having learned from past foolishness, is nursing a second cup rather than a third or fourth and intends to see it stops there. Still, the alcohol loosens his tongue and leaves him curled into the plush red and black chair, one leg stretched out onto the footstool, the fire crackling in front of them. _What does it matter if Noct thought it was worth it - he had to die for it, he’d never even see what his sacrifice had done_ , he wants to point out, the bitterness so sharp that it’s sour on his tongue. He holds himself back just barely, though the temptation to lash out is there all the same. They don’t deserve his aggression, and he needs to find a better outlet than the two people who are suffering just as much as he is.

He still hasn’t mentioned to either of them that the hallucinations haven’t stopped; if anything they’ve become more concerning. It’s not the same as the visions from earlier, seeing into Noctis’ future and being unable to change it. It’s unsettling for a multitude of reasons; if the Astrals were trying to show him something, they were being terribly indirect about it and they certainly don’t _feel_ like those visions. For all that he could tell, there is no rhyme or reason to them, but they aren’t actively impeding him; if it is residual energy from the crystal, there is precious little for him to do but wait for it to be clear _why_ it was happening. _The Gods work in mysterious ways_ , he thinks mockingly, and thumbs over the condensation on his glass.

“You’re gonna twist yourself up in knots thinking about ifs and buts, Iggy,” Gladiolus says with far more wisdom than Ignis particularly likes right now: another reminder of how much they’ve grown and changed and will continue to do so while Noctis won’t have that chance. The melancholy behavior doesn't suit any of them but he likes this quiet fatalism and surety even less. He wishes he could be half as certain as Gladiolus was that they had done the right thing.

“We survived ten years without the sun,” Ignis says quietly before he can stop himself, the words spilling out like he’s suddenly a child again and is speaking without thinking, emotion overriding logical response. “Ten years. We could have survived more.”

“Iggy,” Gladiolus voice is terribly, terribly low and rough instead of sharp and angry. Ignis hates how much they’ve all grown up, how they’ve all likely considered the very same thing but none of them had ever voiced it. “We could’ve. Hell, we probably could’ve lived to a ripe old age and maybe figured something out, but what about Talcott? Iris? Everyone else who would have had to grow up in that world longer than they already had to?”

“Noct would’ve figured out a way to fix it,” Prompto bursts out before Ignis has a chance to respond to anything, and the outburst is enough that both of them are momentarily silent because despite everything, Prompto hasn’t really said much about the status of things. “We let him go in there and he did what he was supposed to, and I’m glad, I am, ‘cause people aren’t in danger anymore but we could’ve-- we should’ve--”

No one else should have to lose someone close to them because of the daemons, Ignis knows. It feels awful, like a piece of him is missing and will never grow back; Noctis sacrificing himself to prevent anyone else from having to experience such a thing only proved that he’d grown into a man that his father could be proud of. That didn’t mean that Ignis had to be particularly happy about it, or that any of them were handling his loss particularly well.

“C’mere kid,” he hears Gladiolus say under his breath despite the fact that Prompto is no longer a kid, coupled with the creak of the couch he’d been sprawled out on. A moment later, there’s the sound of his hand thudding against Prompto’s back and unsteady, shuddering breaths in and out. He can feel the weight of Gladiolus’ gaze just as heavily as if he were able to see it; Ignis keeps his face blank despite knowing the other man can see right through it. “What’s done is done. We did the best we could with the information we had. Noct wouldn’t want us beating ourselves up over it.”

No matter how many times he hears it and despite who’s saying it, he has to fight down the childish urge to retort that because of their actions, Noct doesn’t _want_ anything at all. “There’s no changing the past,” Ignis says finally, finishing off his glass and standing. “All we can do is make sure that going forward, we make the most of his sacrifice so it wasn’t in vain and ensure we honor what he did. ”

Pretty words that mean exactly nothing. The funeral is approaching and despite how long it’s taken to get to this point, it still feels as if it’s too soon. They all grieve in different ways, but maybe the funeral will do something to ease some of the ache; maybe it will finally seem real at that point.

“I’ll see both of you in the morning. Thank you for the drink,” Ignis murmurs finally, fumbling for his cane a moment before managing to find it and taking slow, measured steps for the door. Goodbyes are murmured back and forth and Ignis makes his way to his room once more. He allows himself a longer shower and when he comes back out, there’s water and painkillers settled beside his bed; his lips twitch faintly. If Gladiolus or Prompto are so focused on taking care of him, he can only hope that they’re doing the same for themselves.

 

* * *

 

 

Ignis doesn’t particularly see the need in sampling the food that they’re catering this close to the funeral; he’s going to have to sample all of it again while they’re prepping to make certain that it’s adequate and with so little time they’re simply doing substitutions for items that may run out which doesn’t provide much room for choice.

Maybe it’s just that with each task he crosses off the list it becomes all the more apparent that this is happening. There’s a finality to it - the closer they get to being able to host the funeral and lay Noctis to rest properly, the closer he is to having to acknowledge that this is what happened. That he spent the better part of his life protecting and guiding someone who grew up into one of the best men he knew, and willingly led him to slaughter under the pretense of it being _necessary_.

It takes twice as long to get to meetings when he insists that he do it without an escort, but he also refuses to allow himself to become soft or have anyone at court think that he’s incapable. At times, he allows Gladiolus or Prompto to help because despite their fussing, they’ve gotten better about keeping it to a hand at the small of his back and not exploding with worry every time he trips.

Sometimes, though, he just wants to take a walk on his own to prove that he can do it; he survived what was very nearly the end of the world. He can survive walking ten blocks to sample food.

The walk itself is blessedly uneventful. He knows the way well enough without the use of the voice guided navigation which means that it’s a simple matter of waiting for the sound of the traffic lights to swap and indicate that he can cross. Prompto’s suggested that they look into getting a dog for him, or some sort of animal companion to help him navigate the streets as they slowly fill up with the influx of new arrivals in the wake of the light returning. He thinks it’s wholly unnecessary; he doesn’t have time to manage a pet on top of everything else that he’s doing and he manages well enough as it is.

Turning, he waits patiently at a stoplight, listening to the sound of a city that’s _alive_ again. He may not be able to see the status of all of the buildings and the repairs the others have been working on, but he can hear it. There’s the low hum of electricity powering the block, the sound of tires on pavement, the low chatter of people as they start to get used to life as it used to be. It’s comforting in more ways than he thought possible, despite everything. He notes the quiet chirp signaling that it’s almost time to cross and touches a hand to the lamp post, waiting.

 _Ignis_.

Abruptly, it -- whatever this is, hallucination, delusion -- is no longer as faint as it has been up to this point. Ignis takes a step forward when indicated and abruptly it feels like Noctis is _everywhere_. He can smell the scent of aftershave, and there’s unmistakably the sensation of a gloved hand on his arm, jerking him back. He stumbles, jarred by the very real sensation of a hand on his arm keeping him from crossing the road and a moment later, there’s the sound of someone laying on their horn and the sharp rush of wind as a car plows through the light, straight through the crosswalk that he’d been about to go through.

“Holy-- hey, sir, are you okay?” Beside him, a woman grabs his arm and starts talking, asking a thousand questions that he can’t even begin to parse right now, not with the fact that it was Noctis’ voice, his gloved hand and the sensation of it was clear as day. Given that the woman isn’t commenting on it, he’d assume that there was nothing visible but that only raises more questions than anything else. When he turns to face her and assure her that he’s just fine, he hears her sharp inhale. “You’re -- how did you know to stop if you can’t see the car?”

“I have excellent hearing,” Ignis says as if that’s an answer at all, gently shaking her off. He’s endlessly grateful she doesn’t press him further on the issue, because _I think I’m hallucinating our dead king and that hallucination saved me_ is really not something he wants to get into on the sidewalk. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m quite capable, I assure you.”

Judging from the noise she makes, she’s not quite thrilled about it but also isn’t going to fight a stranger after he’s proven to somehow be able to avoid traffic without being able to see it. “Truly, I’m quite alright, thank you for your concern,” he says gently, and manages to extricate himself and head across the street only when it’s safe. There’s no time to consider what just happened despite how his mind keeps working over it a thousand times on the walk to the caterer’s.

The only logical conclusion is that whatever happened when he put on the ring could have resulted in the Kings of Lucis taking a special interest in him, perhaps mistaking him for Noctis, but that seems particularly unlikely given that they were more than well aware that he didn’t have a single drop of royal blood in his veins.

By the time he’s back, it’s one thing after another and the situation slips from his mind; no one was injured and nothing has changed so there’s no use fussing over it. Perhaps later, he’ll consult with Cid or Cor to find out if one of them knows something about the Lucis bloodline that wasn’t publicly advertised or well known that could provide an answer, but both of them are so busy with everything that he doesn’t want to cause a fuss if it’s unnecessary. Instead, he sets it to the back of his mind and proceeds to focus on what he can actively handle, which right now, is organizing the final bits of the funeral and making certain that both Prompto and Gladiolus don’t have too much on their plates.

When he finally remembers the jarring incident, they’re knee deep in preparations and there’s no good time to point it out, so he tucks it in the back of his mind. It hasn’t happened again since and any time he tries to reach out and slide his fingers around the power he thinks he can almost feel, nothing happens. There are other things to worry about.

* * *

 


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know that story about the guy in the desert thinking he sees water but it’s just a hallucination ‘cause he’s really thirsty? That’s all it was.” 
> 
> It’s an apt description, he supposes. He misses Noct like a man without water in the desert. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to, but it’s a dull ache in his chest, brought forward every time he thinks about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update! Finalized some edits, wrote some extra stuff, celebrated Christmas and had a great time with friends. Hope you all had a great Christmas too. This chapter has a little Ignis/OMC but it's mostly used for illustrating how Ignis is coping (or lol not coping), not with any real intent to ship them.

 

The funeral rolls around; it’s a few steps short of being downright opulent, and that’s after Ignis had been extremely particular about making sure things weren’t as excessive as some people wished it was. They didn’t have the money to handle a lavish party - or well, they did, but he firmly believed the money was better spent on actually helping the people Noctis had lost his life to save rather than helping nobles feel as if things were back to normal.  He’s prepared to have half a million arguments with the coddled, entitled members of court about where the money goes if they want to fight him on it. At this point, it’s been months since he’s fought _anything_  and he thinks he might actually enjoy it.

The compromise they come to is that it’s fancy as befitting of the loss of king and prince, but they reuse all of the old items that were already there from prior events, ensuring the only real costs are security, food, and repairing the area internally and around to ensure that everyone who attends is as safe as is feasible. People come from all over to pay their respects; word travels fast now that the cell towers are back up and there’s consistent electricity powering most of the continent.

There’s still a power vacuum that needs addressed both with Tenebrae and Insomnia, and residual issues from all of the areas that were annexed by the Empire. Already Ignis is hearing rumors of people starting to band together to make a bid for the throne; let them try, he thinks wryly. Most of those who think they want it would run screaming in the other direction if confronted with the reality of ruling rather than the ideal. Some of the attempts have already been quashed before they can start, but there will always be others which means they need a solution sooner rather than later.

“One thing at a time, Iggy,” Gladiolus reassures him when they’re finished shaking hands with a series of delegates from -- Six, he’s not even sure where they’re from, he’d been operating on autopilot this whole time since the first day of all of this. It’s been smooth so far and he hadn’t been needed for damage control which is a credit to his work, but it also means that he’s been meeting person after person, constantly _on_ and he’s finding that political work when you can’t see the faces of who you’re speaking to is significantly harder, especially after the exhausting week before funeral. “Iggy. _Ignis_.”

Gladiolus’ sharp whistle jolts him out of his thought process and he barely resists the urge to flinch back from it, aching to reach for his daggers because that’s _usually_  the tone that means he needs to be wary of an enemy. Except: they’re in a giant hall and the only monsters here are the sort that are seeking to prey on those less fortunate. Ignis lifts a hand and gingerly settles it on Gladiolus arm to reassure him, feeling Prompto sidle close and press a hand to the small of his back and rub like he’s a worrystone.

“I’m here, there’s no need to yell or whistle as if I’m an unruly dog,” Ignis murmurs mildly, letting Prompto push a glass of water into his hand, sipping it.

Gladiolus snorts like he doesn’t quite believe it, but doesn’t push. “Lotta guys here are just gonna talk to hear themselves say words. Between us, the Kingsglaive leftover, Cor and the rest - we’ll put up a fight if anyone tries anything.”

It’s better than nothing and Ignis is too tired to argue the fact; besides, a moment later comes a new slew of people to be introduced or introduced to and the cycle starts all over again. By the time it’s finished for that day, it’s nearing two in the morning and Ignis is leaning on his cane more heavily than he’d ever admit. Gladiolus drags both of them off to the office they used to plan things and plunks a giant (most likely amber) bottle down in front of them. They never used to drink this much, but he supposes “this much” is effectively twice in the span of the months of planning.

“Oh, man,” Prompto says like a warning and Ignis is just _full_  of confidence that this is going to be something they’ll all regret. “I think I only just got over the hangover from the last time we did this. Can a hangover last a few weeks? I dunno if I hate myself enough for this again.”

“Don’t be a wuss,” Gladiolus plunks down four glasses; the sound of the last one hitting makes Ignis flinch, though he realizes why it’s out after he has a shot pressed into his hand. “To Noct.”

There’s a long moment of silence; he hears Prompto’s breathing go soft and shuddery and can feel Gladiolus sitting next to him, a long line of leashed tension. “To Noct,” Prompto repeats quietly.

“To Noct,” Ignis breathes and they clink glasses, knocking it back. Despite the roaring hangover he knows he’s going to have tomorrow, the night is...welcome. Needed. They sprawl out on the plush couch, all hanging in each other’s space. Prompto has his legs in Ignis’ lap and Gladiolus’ arm is around the back of the couch, fingers brushing Ignis shoulder each time one of them shifts. It’s close in a way they haven’t really been in years, and rather than getting drunk to numb the ache of losing Noct, they’re drinking, clinking their glasses when one of them thinks of a story to tell.

“Remember Noct trying to feed that chocobo? Sidled up all careful and then held out the lettuce and the noise he made when it grabbed it?” Prompto half-rolls, half-falls gracefully off the couch and goes to grab something out of his bag. When he throws himself back onto the couch with them, it’s to shoulder into Ignis’ side, leaving him smoothly tucked between him and Gladiolus. Ignis isn’t sure if it’s intentional or just how things ended up, but it’s warm and familiar and he’s very, very tired. “Gladio?”

“Yeah, s’fine,” Gladiolus' hand settles on Prompto’s shoulder, both of them having some sort of unspoken conversation which prompts Ignis to sit up straight and give Gladiolus a look - he’s more likely to break than Prompto is. “Hey, don’t look at me. This was Prom’s idea through and through.”

“What was Prompto’s idea?” Ignis turns to the other party involved, dubious.

“It’s just - don’t...take this the wrong way, okay, but we were thinking… all of us have pictures and stuff of him, but those don’t...do you a lot of good. So I got to thinking, well, what would do you some good. And I didn’t take a _ton_ of video back then, but I have _some_  so Gladio and I went through all of it, cleaned it up and put it together. It’s -- um, hold out your hand.” Prompto’s practically vibrating with excitement next to him and Ignis -- Ignis isn’t quite sure how he feels right now.

Gingerly, he puts his hand out palm up and in it is placed a square, barely smaller than one of their phones.

“You charge it with a phone cable. Fingerprint activated, buncha storage. It’s something like five hours of video -- but the audio’s the important part. We tried to take out the ones that didn’t have much context or were just both of us talking and you’re -- uh. Not saying anything. Is this--” Prompto’s voice goes lower, softer, uncertain and Ignis drags in a shuddering breath, holding the little box tightly in one hand while the other grips the shotglass.

“It’s -- wonderful, Prompto. A very thoughtful gift.” Very thoughtful, wonderful - those words don’t even begin to describe exactly what this is or what it means to him. They’re inadequate and he struggles to reach for some that might work, that would fully encapsulate what this means to have some...piece of Noctis, something to remember him by. Horrifically, he can feel his eyes burning and he tilts his head back, blinking furiously with a wet little laugh as Gladiolus takes that opportunity to top their glasses off again. “Thank you both. It’s exceptionally thoughtful.”

“Don’t get all sappy on us, Iggy. You’ll ruin the rumor about you bein’ a total hardass.” Gladiolus says, mock-serious. Their glasses clink again and this shot still burns going down, but sandwiched between the two of them, sharing the good memories of Noctis, Ignis can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

When the night winds down, it’s practically morning. Gladiolus walks him back to his room again - Prompto is passed out on the couch and covered in a blanket, snoring away. Neither of them are as bad off as they could have been; exhaustion has more to do with any clumsiness than alcohol.

“Thank you,” Ignis says outside his door, holding tightly onto the door, looking up at Gladiolus. He might not be able to see him, but it still feels odd not to look at someone he’s speaking to. “For the present, for your help, for taking care of me at night. It’s -- unnecessary, but appreciated.”

Gladiolus seems perplexed, but doesn’t fight it so Ignis doesn’t think anything of it. “Yeah, yeah. Take your sappy ass inside and get some rest,” he orders gently. Ignis nods once and makes his way into his room, managing to get as far as pajamas and the basics tended to before he crawls into bed, utterly exhausted.

In the morning: three oval pills and a glass of water.

 

* * *

 

When it’s all said and done, Noctis and Regis have headstones in the Lucis family plot. While the funeral was, technically, for both of them (as it wasn’t like the Empire was going to host a funeral for the kings they’ve murdered) it’s Noctis’ headstone spilling over with flowers and tiny gifts.

Part of Ignis had worried they’d have to be wary of defacing - maybe not Nocts, but Regis’. He’d never see it, so he appoints one of the new groundskeepers to check it twice a day and ensure no one gets any ideas.

For a while, nothing happens. Ignis thinks that that’s the end of it. It’s been nearly a year -- eleven months. He still goes to see Noctis’ grave every morning and leaves a flower there on his headstone and another on Regis’. They’re both covered in flowers already so his single flower seems ridiculous in retrospect but he has to do it. It feels good to have a habit, a ritual. Some way that he can acknowledge Noctis, even in death. _Gone but not forgotten. Never forgotten._

Noctis’ birthday comes as a surprise; for years they never celebrated it, but now, Ignis and Prompto are left poring over paperwork suggesting that his birthday be marked a holiday. Ignis likes it better than the idea of marking the day when the sun came back - the day Noctis died. At least this way, there’s something...positive about it. Noctis deserves that and more.

They pour glasses of ridiculously expensive whisky, a habit on these nights, and it doesn’t get any easier to drink. Ignis finds himself sandwiched between the two of them again, and while he can’t see the videos that they play, he can hear them. Prompto and Gladiolus describe what’s happening in between laughter -- _just picked it up off the ground, it was filthy_! _I nearly had a heart attack,_ Ignis says at one point which launches the two of them into more laughter.

Despite the heavy atmosphere, it’s...good. It feels good to remember Noctis how he was, laughing as he caught a fish, cracking jokes with Prompto, sparring with Gladio before they set up camp. A thousand moments that at the time, were perhaps insignificant, and now -- now, are worth more than almost anything else Ignis possesses.

The next morning (water and three oval pills waiting for him) he makes his way to Noctis’ grave, resting a flower on it. It feels...better, somehow. Like an aged injury that still aches, but is starting to heal bit by bit, as if last night lanced the last of the infection out of it and they could finally begin to move on.  For all that he’d spent the morning rolling over a thousand words, trying to pick and choose the right ones in the correct order, none of them seem adequate. Instead, he presses fingertips to Noctis’s headstone a long moment and then makes his way back inside.

* * *

 At first, he thinks it’s the exhaustion playing tricks on him. While things have calmed marginally, there’s still a thousand different issues to deal with on any given day and Ignis structures their schedules as best as he can, but still. It’s...a lot. Worse: it feels as if someone has their eyes on him more often than not. The same feeling he got when he’d heard Noctis’ voice so many months ago, but nothing ever...happens.

There are little things of note that are perplexing, but not ultimately concerning. Food going missing in the kitchen is chalked up to the multitude of people coming in and out. The painkillers and water at night are attributed to Prompto or Gladiolus and he never thinks to look further into it. At times, he struggles to find the pen he’d been using or a set of paperwork that he’d been reading over, only to reach out again and find it there. A thousand little events that, on their own, are unremarkable.

A thousand little events that when he looks at them, really  _looks_ makes him realize what a fool he’s been.

Prompto’s been strange all day; cagey over breakfast, basically gone during lunch and at dinner, he pokes at his food until Gladiolus tells him that _‘it’s already dead, and ain’t getting any deader - you can stop pokin’ at it_.' It does stop Prompto from picking at his food but when they retire for the night, Ignis catches him before he can go too far. Thankfully, blessedly, Prompto’s never been a particularly closed book. With others, it might have been a fight to pry information out.  With Prompto, he settles him down at the kitchen island with a new rendition of the dessert and two cups of tea and  <I>waits.</i>

“It’s just - it’s probably nothing,” Prompto starts, poking at the meal with his fork; Ignis can hear the faint _ting_ each time the fork hits china. “You ever feel like you’re...I don’t know. Going crazy?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to provide a little more context than that,” Ignis says dryly, delicately cutting the tiny cake into bite-sized pieces. “But yes, I’ve had moments where things feel -- off.”

“No, I mean. I don’t know what I mean, really. But did you ever have moments where you think you...see something and it’s just a shadow, or a trick of the light or something?” Prompto digs into the dessert after Ignis takes a bite, making a pleased noise (good) and then talks with his mouth full, continuing (less so). “I was in the throne room earlier, pointing out the parts that needed repair since everything else has been pretty much handled, y’know? And I was looking up and I thought -- I mean. It’s obviously nothing. Just a trick of the shadows, but-”

A thousand little moments that he’d chalked up to the ring, to residual powers, to his own inability to fully wield it, to his own _weakness_  for Noctis and now Prompto’s angling at something that Ignis has a feeling he knows without needing explained. Still, he must ask, to be certain: “Who did you see?”

Not what.

Prompto must mistake his sudden stillness for concern, or anger, or something else because instantly, he drops the fork and blows out a breath, speaking quickly. “I’m sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t have even - it’s insane, it sounds insane, I know.”

“Prompto. Who did you see?” Ignis presses, and gives it to a count of five moments of silence. On five, like clockwork, Prompto breaks.

“It was just a shadow, I’m not...crazy or anything, okay,  but for a sec, I thought it looked like Noct, standing at the throne. I mean. I know it wasn’t. I know-- I _know_.” Prompto picks his fork back up again, but clearly isn’t eating; he can hear the idle noise of him poking his fork into the dessert. “You know that story about the guy in the desert thinking he sees water but it’s just a hallucination ‘cause he’s really thirsty? That’s all it was.”

It’s an apt description, he supposes. He misses Noctis like a man without water in the desert. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to, but it’s a dull ache in his chest, brought forward every time he thinks about him.

“We buried him, you know? What we could,” Prompto continues after a moment of silence, picking up his tea with a quiet clatter. “We - I know he’s dead. I know. But sometimes it’s just--”

He doesn’t finish, quieting, focusing on his tea instead. Ignis doesn’t quite know how to respond, either. It could still be coincidence and if it’s not, he has no way to check, no way to be sure. There’s nothing about something like this in all of the books he’s been reviewing, poring over, trying to make sense of things. Nothing about ghosts, or spirits lingering afterward. A question with no answers and he _hates_  it. Not just because of the lack of closure, but because they can’t do anything about it. There’s no tests to run, no research to do. The information on the Ring, the Crystal, the bloodline - all of it, while it exists, isn’t entirely comprehensive and both the king and Oracle are dead, halting their bloodlines. There’s no one to do research on or for, which means they’re at an impasse.

“You don’t think I’m crazy, right,” Prompto hedges, sounding all at once like he’s just joined the group again and is feeling his way out among them, trying to figure out where he best fits in. Ignis has never been particularly good at physical comfort, but he reaches out and clasps his shoulder firmly, squeezing.

“You don’t sound crazy. I’ve...experienced strange things, too, but there’s no way to tell what they are. The results are inconclusive at best. If you encounter something else like that again, though--”

“I’ll tell you,” Prompto rushes, promising. It seems cruel to give false hope, because that’s exactly what this is, but it’d be more foolish to ignore this-- whatever this is.

Later, when Prompto’s left and the kitchen is cleaned, Ignis takes one of the cakes with him to the grave and places it gently amongst the veritable nest of flowers and gifts. For a moment, he simply stands there, waiting, hoping for a sign or some sort of indication that he’s wrong - that there’s something more to this, that Noctis is somehow alive and well but nothing happens. A breeze filters through the trees. A bird coasts over, landing on the grave and whistles and Ignis has to swallow the ugly thought of swiping at it, horrifically angry that anything beautiful and alive could be out here when Noctis is dead and not able to appreciate it.

* * *

 

It’s not often that he dreams, but it’s rarer still that he remembers them. This one, for better or worse, he does.

They’re standing in the Citadel and Noctis takes each step painfully slow up the stairs, ascending them as Ignis had hoped for a thousand times over and knew he would never get to see. Each step is loud in the silence around them, louder and more distracting than it needs to be, but it doesn’t matter.  Soon, Noctis will be on the throne, soon, things will be righted and Ignis feels a sharp spike of relief, shivering out a breath.

The air’s charged with energy: the same that he felt when sliding the ring onto his finger, the same when Noctis reached into that well deep inside himself and _pulled_  unleashing the might and fury of the crystal and ring.

“Noct,” Ignis says blankly, not comprehending. It is, in fact, Noctis. He’s dressed in all black, jacket slung over his shoulder, facing the building. Ignis says his name again, more urgently, and feels as if he’s missing something. Something important.

Around them, the air crackles; it feels just like how it did fighting Ardyn while wearing the ring did, like licking the end of a battery. His skin tingles and he moves closer to the throne, frowning. When he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. Another step and Noctis runs his hands over the throne reverently, almost.

Almost. There’s something off about it - reverent isn’t the word he means, it’s...if he didn’t know any better, he’d say it’s something else: greed, maybe. When he throws himself into the throne and leans forward to regard him, Ignis realizes he’s right. There _is_  something wrong. It’s Noctis’ face but it’s paler than normal, made ugly by anger, by the glowing orange eyes sitting in sunken sockets, the black ichor dripping down his face and out of his eyes and mouth like tears. He can’t yell, he can’t move, he can’t do anything besides work his mouth soundlessly, pleading for Noctis to snap out of it, to come back.

Noctis, somehow, doesn’t seem to have the same issue. He smiles wide, teeth stained black and sharper than they ought to be. “Oh, but Ignis, I’m right _here_. I’ve always been right here.”

Ignis wakes, sweat-damp and trembling, a hand pressed to his mouth to bite back the screams threatening to spill out. Nightmares are common, he reminds himself. How many did Talcott suffer when they were all fit into a safehouse? How many times did Gladiolus wake up after his turn as watch, trembling and cursing under his breath? It’s a nightmare. Nothing more, nothing less.

Despite that, he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something off.

* * *

 The nightmare fades, bit by bit, into the back of his mind with new things to concentrate on. There’s always one emergency or another and this time it’s a state dinner with visiting dignitaries - a better excuse for them to make the trip than for a funeral. The day positively crawls by but when it’s nearing its end, he and Gladiolus are talking idly with someone who knew Gladiolus’ father and been around Noctis as a teenager. He’s been particularly kind about it and after a beat, Ignis realizes that he’s not imagining that interest there. The man’s hand lingers when Ignis offers him a drink.

Once, he would have ignored the idea of it straight away; his dedication was to Noctis and his King, and he had no time for passing fancies, especially not one that was significantly older. The age isn’t the issue, though he supposes it should be - it’s everything else. There’s always something and this life isn’t kind to someone who thinks they can balance another person’s needs with a job this complicated. In all things: Noctis was the exception.

“You could go for it,” Gladiolus points out when the other man leaves to speak with someone who caught his arm. “Noct wouldn’t hold it against you-- he wouldn’t want you to be a monk.”

Ignis raises an eyebrow, tone wry, making sure he uses his full name just to make sure his displeasure is clear, “Despite whatever you may think of me, Gladiolus, I can assure you, I am most certainly _not_  a monk.”

“Yeah? Good. Maybe look into not being a monk with that guy, tonight.” Gladiolus is just being a shit to be a shit and slaps his back firmly, too hard for it to be anything but mocking. It sends him a step forward just as the delegate turns and Ignis is nearly knocked straight into him.

Embarrassment and a flicker of anger flood him before the delegate smiles and touches his arm; he’s only aware of the former because he can hear it in his voice.

Regretfully, Ignis realizes he likes it. It’s been awhile since anyone had expressed so blatant an interest in him, and blessedly, he never makes any sort of worried comment, doesn’t mention the cane, doesn’t attempt to help. Instead, the delegate leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, “They pack everyone in here like fish -- boring, stuffy fish, perhaps we could get some air?”

It’s the kind of line that Ignis and Gladiolus had warned Noctis about - don’t go out for ‘some air’ onto the balconies - someone is just waiting to take a photo of you if there’s an event, and sometimes even if not. They tried to avoid scandal as much as possible and once, Regis had privately confided that he was grateful Noctis wasn’t the sort to steal away with any and everyone out of some sort of rebellious notion.

Noctis is dead, however and Gladiolus’ laughter is somewhere ten feet to his left. There’s no one to care if he pursues someone except for his two friends and they aren’t going anywhere, so after a beat, he nods. “I’d appreciate it. As much fun as it is nearly sparking international disasters by hitting someone with my cane by accident, I’d rather not spoil all the work I’ve put into these treaties.”

“A right shame,” the other man agrees kindly and doesn’t offer him his arm or try to take Ignis’ to guide him. Instead: “Lest we risk an international incident, if you want to follow me, I’ll make sure to cut us a path.”

The man, he later learns after a few gentle, coaxing kisses, is from Tenebrae. He’s forty-four, the brother of one of the politicians here. He’s not a politician himself; he’s a doctor, interested in science, especially with the knowledge they gained during those ten dark years. Karil is sweet, soft-spoken and terribly intelligent and yet--

“It’s alright,” Karil says after Ignis pulls away from their last kiss, regretful.

Karil is sweet, soft-spoken, terribly intelligent and very much aware that despite how much Ignis wishes it were so, he’s not...interested. Not how he should be. Not in a one night fling to work out some of his stress, not in a relationship. Maybe one day, but the loss of Noctis is still fresh and there’s still much that needs done out here. _If Noctis comes back--_  but he won’t, because he’s dead. He doesn’t admit to himself that maybe, it’s because he’s afraid of moving on. They drink champagne on the balcony and exchange one final, lingering kiss where Ignis is provided with a number to reach him at. He doesn’t think he’ll call for a fling, but maybe for a friend.

When the party empties and staff start to perform clean up, Gladiolus sidles up behind him, silent for a man so large.

“Before you ask, no.”

“Didn’t even know what I was gonna ask, smartass,” Gladiolus snipes back and continues before Ignis can retort. “I get it. You haven’t moved on yet. Don’t think we have either. But monk or not, I’m still telling you that Noct’d want you to--”

Whatever he’s going to say is stopped by Ignis turning to pour himself another drink if Gladiolus is going to give him relationship advice. There’s a moment where glass tinkles further down the table out of reach, hitting the tabletop and then he jerks, moving on instinct. He catches the glasses, but barely so and delicately puts them back, shaking his head. “Let’s go before I nearly knock something else over, precariously placed or not.”

Gladiolus silence this time is concerning rather than a victory; they make their way down the hall toward Ignis’ room and just as he’s about to break it, Gladiolus speaks. “You haven’t always been able to warp like that.”

Startled, Ignis barks out a laugh and while his glasses ruin the effect of the dubious look he’s giving his friend, he thinks his eyebrows work well enough to deliver his incredulity. “Am I so incapable in your mind that catching a glass has become a feat worthy of Noctis?”

“No,” Gladiolus says, all patient irritation, and Ignis barely resists the urge to flinch because his tone has that hurt note to it, veiled by anger. “I’m sayin’ that you warped to grab it. And I’m sayin’ that you’ve been acting squirrely these last few months especially. If something happened - the ring, or whatever else did something to you, or-- or  _Noct_  and you aren’t telling us--”

That Gladiolus thinks that he would keep Noctis from them - that his coming back from the dead would be something that he would hide like something to do with the ring or the crystal - it’s insulting as much as it’s hurtful. They’ve always been able to do this with each other but never really tried to dig in, to let words do the damage their weapons won’t. “I haven’t kept anything from you, and furthermore, there’s no way. The ring was destroyed. The crystal is in shambles.”

Noctis is dead.

Ignis continues before he can point that out. “There’s nothing wrong, except you believing that  would--”

“Ig, Iggy, listen. That’s not… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.” He can almost picture Gladiolus right now, rubbing the nape of his neck, fiddling with his too-long hair. “Listen, I’m not tryin’ to be a dick here.”

“Lackluster apology accepted.” Ignis says shortly and barely resists the urge to point out that Gladiolus doesn’t have to try to be a dick to actively be one; it’s unnecessary and he’s hurting, wanting to lash out. Gladiolus and the others deserve better than sharp words from someone who cares for them. “There’s no good explanation for it.”

“I think there is, you just don’t wanna go down that road ‘cause you don’t want to be disappointed.” It’s a true enough sentence, but Ignis still flinches back from the truth of it, like Gladiolus is trying to dig in with words instead of his massive blade. “All I’m saying is look into it. If the ring gave you the power to warp, you need to figure out how to train with it. If it’s not the ring, then you need to look into what the ritual is with the glaives and the king. ‘Cause if it’s _that_ \--”

Then Noctis, despite everything, could have somehow avoided death.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distantly, he hears the other two agree and barely resists the urge to show his displeasure when Ardyn laughs loudly, mockingly and waves off their promises like the words are gnats buzzing around him. “Ignis Scientia, isn’t it? I had to dig; he doesn’t think of you with that last name very often. It’s Ignis, or Iggy, or -- well, I suppose he’s due some secrets, especially salacious one involving you taking on his name. Ignis Scientia is so _boring_ , though, don’t you think? I suppose if you follow through on his request, everyone else will have a new name for you, won’t they? Ignis the Betrayer, there’s a title, though it’s still awfully plain. What...about… oh, _yes_. Ignis _Kingslayer_. I know he never had a _proper_ coronation, a true shame, but I do have to give credit where credit is due. Ignis Kingslayer. There’s a _strong_ name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAHHHH WE'RE GETTIN INTO THE MEAT OF IT, FRIENDS. Thanks so much for the comments!! Two chapters left and then maybe some side story things because I am nothing if not mashed potatoes levels of soft for the idiots. A few things: again ty to Kieran for their help with this, I'm playing fast and loose here with what did and didn't happen because it's an AU and also because [SHRUGS?]. Second, you'll notice this is 5 chapters now, lol s o r r y. 
> 
> We're looking at something like a chapter a week or so, each about 4-6k.

then.  

“You’re sulking,” Ignis points out over breakfast, flipping a pancake with a neat little twist of his wrist. Behind him, he hears the sigh, can almost feel Noctis’ glare at his back, two pointy little daggers. “We’ve spoken of this, Noctis. It isn’t something that you’re expected to grasp instantly, and everyone has a different learning curve. Take it in bits and pieces, and use that knowledge to--”  

“Create a foundation to build on,” Noctis finishes for him, which would normally be nice -- proof he’s paying attention, but this is clearly muttered out of annoyance so Ignis doesn’t consider it a battle won. “It’s not the same. I can throw the dagger and I _think_  about warping but I just go fuzzy around the edges. I almost got stuck in the table, Iggy! Gladio laughed so hard he choked and then laughed harder when I got mad at him. Said all he had to do is put a table between me and him and he’d be safe.”  

Blessedly, Ignis is facing the stove instead of Noctis, so he never sees the way that his lips turn up in amusement, digging his teeth into his cheek to prevent any sort of indication from escaping. It’s a rather hilarious mental image, despite understanding Noctis’ frustration.

With the pancakes finished, Ignis eyes them and then sighs, figuring the prince has had a rough day and he has a full day of training in front of him. In the cabinet are chocolate chips; he takes a tablespoon, carefully measures them out and then places them in a neat pile on top of the pancakes, bringing it over. The gift is appreciated; he sees it in the way Noctis’ sulking starts to evaporate and he drags the plate closer, reaching for the syrup.

 “I read some of the books His Majesty provided and highlighted some of the passages you may find useful. It’s...well. I certainly cannot pretend to understand it, but maybe that would be helpful.”

 “How,” Noctis asks through a mouthful of chocolate, syrup and pancake. There’s a smear at the corner of his lips that Ignis has to resist thumbing away.

 Sighing, Ignis hands him a napkin. “How do you move your arm?”

The question stumps him a moment; he can see the way Noctis turns it over in his head and then pokes at the pancakes, trying to figure out how he’s going to articulate it.

“You think, and it happens. But you’re able to watch it as it happens, to make sure that you’re aiming for the right place, and you’re -- even if you don’t know it -- focused on the goal. In this case, cutting pancakes. It’s habit now, so ingrained that you don’t even think about it because you’re so used to it. Your father treats it much the same way, and I believe he may have forgotten how it may have been difficult to master when he was your age.” Delicately, Ignis begins cutting his own pancakes into square, easily bitten sizes and pours a dollop of syrup over the top so it sinks into the parts he hasn’t eaten yet. “Perhaps you try it that way. Imagine each step of the process as it happens. You hold the knife, you feel its weight in your hand. You throw it. You imagine crossing the distance and appearing where it lands.”  

He doesn’t need to continue because instead of looking irritated that he’s being schooled on how to use his powers by someone who has never done it before, he looks...thoughtful. Noctis reaches for something in his jacket and Ignis barely resists the urge to sigh again because he pulls the dagger out of his jacket pocket, no sheath, nothing.  It’s a wonder he hasn’t hurt himself yet.

“Do take care not to accidentally stab yourself while putting the jacket on, Your Highness, I’ve just finished mending your uniform this morning.” He will, of course, mend it again if he needs to; it’s his duty but he also gets no small measure of pride out of seeing Noctis with every piece of him in place, looking the king he’ll later become. “Finish your pancakes and if you like, we can try and practice before you have to meet with everyone this morning.”

It will put them just barely on time, but he knows that the buffer he’s built into Noctis’ schedule allows for a half hour of delay - usually just in case Noctis needs extra time to sleep in or get ready, and traffic won’t be as bad after rush hour. Noctis, eager to get going shoves another forkful of pancakes into his mouth and Ignis doesn’t bother telling him not to because a moment later he starts coughing and that’s punishment enough. 

Breakfast is finished and the kitchen is tidied up leaving Noctis and Ignis staring at the dagger for a moment, considering. “Dad said it was like filling a cup except instead of water, it was focus and intent. You just...think really hard about what you want to do and it happens.”

It most likely is something similar, but too simple for someone who’s never managed it before. Ignis pushes his glasses up his nose and then crosses his arms. “Think about it in steps. What do you want, ultimately?”

“Not to have to deal with this anymore,” Noctis returns dryly, clearly expecting Ignis to sigh, or roll his eyes, but it’s exactly what he’s looking for.

“You want to end the lesson, yes? Ultimately, you want to master this ability, but it’s so you won’t have to keep trying it. Try thinking about it in steps, working through it each step of the way until you see it through to the end. You’re quite determined when you wish to be, Noctis; I’ve no doubts in your ability to figure it out. Try to think of an...anchor, perhaps. Something that holds you to all of this, that grounds you to it and allows you to channel your magic.”  

The praise works wonders as it always does; Noctis puffs up a little bit and looks quietly pleased with himself as he turns the dagger over in his hand. It’s clear he’s trying, at the very least, working it over in his mind. If Ignis had been thinking, he’d have suggested they do this outside, but then, he didn’t expect that Noctis would take the dagger in hand, heft it, and then _throw it into the wall_ across the living room. Ignis doesn’t bother holding back (or, to be honest, _can't_ ) the startled noise but it doesn’t matter. Blue sparks erupt like falling stars around Noctis and one moment he’s there, the next, he crashes straight into the wall with a thud and a yelp, falling straight on his ass.

Truthfully, Ignis thinks that the two of them are too startled to do anything - Noctis, too startled that he was successful and Ignis, too startled that Noctis just flew into a bloody wall.

“I-- are you quite alright?” Ignis starts, staring at the space where he’d been a moment before making his way over to where Noctis is rising up, a hand pressed to his nose, blood dripping down his chin. For a horrible, heart stopping moment he thinks that the rush of power was too much - that by encouraging Noctis to try this he’s hurt himself with the magic he was supposed to wield, but no. It’s that he crashed into the wall and smacked his face against it. The smile rises again, threatens to tug at his lips but he doesn’t allow it, gently ushering Noctis over to the kitchen bar, fetching paper towels in lieu of anything else for the moment. The shirt is ruined, but they keep it from getting on his pants, which means all he has to do is fetch another shirt and help Noctis change out of it once the nosebleed has stopped. “Well. That-- could have gone better.”

“If you mention this to _anyone_ ,” Noctis says threateningly, but truthfully, isn’t terribly threatening when he’s got paper towels jammed up his nostrils and is sitting shirtless in his kitchen. To be accommodating, Ignis does his best to look suitably cowed. “You can mention the warping--”

“And the rather large knife hole in the wall?” Ignis asks innocently, unable to resist the urge to smile when Noctis levels a finger at him in response.

“The _warping_ , and leave out the rest, okay. Gladio’d never let me hear the end of it.” Noctis shoots him a look that’s blatantly pleading and Ignis is helpless, like always, to agree.

“Of course,” Ignis says, not quite sure if he means it, because this is absolutely something that a few months from now he hopes Noctis will tell his father; they have limited time left together at the rate he’s deteriorating, and little moments where they can laugh will be worth an endless amount. “May I ask how you managed it?”

Noctis pauses, and for a moment Ignis wonders if he even understands or if it’s something that he’s still trying to figure out. If he can recreate it, then all the better; hopefully he can do it without throwing another knife into the wall. “I just...did what you suggested. Imagined how I’d do it, thought about an anchor and--” He lifts his hands, wiggling his fingers, shrugging. “It worked.”

It’s not a perfect science, he supposes, but he’ll take it as Noctis was successful. Ignis nods thoughtfully and presses a gentle hand to Noctis’ shoulder, pleased. “Well. Hole in the wall and bloodied nose aside, I think you’ve done very well.”

The way Noctis’ face lights up in response makes everything worth it.

* * *

now.  


Prompto’s done a rather impressive job of being silent given how painfully boring he must find all of this, but Ignis can tell he’s aching to get on with it. That would be easier, he supposed, if he understood what it was that he was actually trying to do. Noctis’ dagger is held in one hand and they’re standing in the very room that Gladiolus had spent years training him in. Gladiolus, far more patient than he’d been twenty years ago, is leaning against the wall, watching him and blessedly not saying anything but Ignis can feel his impatience as well. 

“It would be easier if I knew where to start,” Ignis sighs, hefting the dagger in his hand. He’d done it again, earlier yesterday- warped without realizing what he was doing, dodging an attack that Gladiolus had launched at him while they were sparring. When it happened, both of them had stopped in shock and Gladiolus had grabbed him firmly by the arm and said _training, tomorrow. No getting out of it._  That left them here, watching him as he tossed the dagger and it thudded into the wall, but when he tried to imagine moving, he couldn’t _see_  it, so it was a thousand times more difficult than necessary.

“You taught Noct how to do this and kept him from getting stuck in another table,” Gladiolus presses, and blessedly, no one flinches. “I dunno how, but whatever you did made him do it when not even His Highness could explain it to him. Just--” Gladiolus flaps a hand, shrugging. “Do that?”

 _Do that_ , Ignis thinks wryly and blows out a breath. Were it only so easy.

“At best, I have a far-fetched guess on how to do this, and at worst, I’m wildly inaccurate and will end stuck in a table or up running into a wall and breaking my nose just as Noctis did.”

A moment later, he realizes: he never told anyone that story. It hadn’t...ever really come up, not to the King, not to the others and Noctis surely would never have told anyone. The long quiet pause is enough that he worries he’s done something wrong and then Prompto shifts where he’s sitting, smacking his hands on the training mats. “Story. _Iggy! Story,_  why didn’t you tell us about this! He ran into a wall?”

“Yeah, I gotta say, you don’t just drop a bomb like that and not explain what the hell happened,” Gladiolus follows up; he's clearly smirking. Ignis can hear it in his voice and imagine it clear as day. “Besides, the four of us have done a lot dumber shit on a lot less info than you have.”

“When His Highness was attempting to teach Noctis how to use his powers, he’d been unsuccessful. I encouraged Noctis to think about the steps to the process from start to finish, and envision what happened at the end to keep from being stuck in something. He threw his dagger into the penthouse living room's wall and warped to it.” Ignis walks to fetch the dagger and hefts it in his hand. It had worked for Noctis and it wasn’t a stretch to imagine that if he, too, somehow had the powers left over from when he’d been using the ring, then he’d be able to use it. Especially due to having already done it twice, apparently.  
  
While Prompto and Gladiolus start laughing, Ignis focuses on the cool weight of the dagger, dissimilar from his own but still familiar; he’d held it a thousand times for Noctis. Maybe that’s it - maybe he ought to use his own daggers? That will be what he tries next, he supposes, and closes his eyes. It’s not exactly necessary given he can’t see to begin with, but it makes him feel more focused, drowning out the sounds of the other two chattering, the noises around him. The dagger grounds him and he remembers what he told Noctis; focus on what he wants to achieve with it.  

Truthfully, he doesn’t much care if he can use the powers on his own. _Truthfully_ , what he really wants is for the powers he may (or may not) have is to bring Noctis back from death. _That's_  what he focuses on, that’s his anchor; Noctis, or the memory of him in later years has been a driving factor of so many of his choices, his decisions, his goals. Noctis was the centerpiece of his life for so long that even now - even with him dead, it’s still all he can think of. He’s supposed to pick a realistic goal, though, so he settles for _I want to understand why this is happening._ _I want to fix this. I want Noct--_

Distantly, he registers that same tingling feeling he’s starting to associate with the last two times this happened - it isn't nearly as strong as when he used the powers the ring granted him, but when he actually concentrates, reaches for it, there’s something there. Noctis had trouble with it too; perhaps it’s just something that doesn’t happen as easily as one would like. Frowning, he gropes for the thread of blue-purple magic inside of himself and twists it until it’s a rope that he can tug, but something tugs back. He watched Noctis fish more often than not, and sometimes when he hooked a particularly large one, the line would go taut and Noctis’ arms would strain against it. This feels remarkably similar.

There’s a moment where he steadies himself, reaching out with every ounce of determination he has in his bones and _pulls_. The world goes white-hot around him, static buzzing in his ears. Through it, he thinks he hears someone saying his name.

Later, Gladiolus and Prompto explain what happened. Not only had he activated his own powers, proving Gladiolus’ theory about his ties to Noctis being similar to that of the Kingsglaive, but whatever he’d done it wasn’t teleporting; he’d _pulled_  Noctis back from wherever he was.

All he knows in that moment is that it feels as if something pulls back once, twice, and then all of the magic in him feels as if it’s been drained, ripped out of him. He remembers feeling exhausted all of the sudden, like he’s been scraped clean of everything inside of himself. There’s a moment of confusion; he wobbles on his feet and hears shouting, but none of it makes any sense as he tilts to the side. Distantly, he’s aware of someone grabbing his arm and sliding underneath it before he can fall completely, but it’s lost to darkness a moment later.

When he wakes, Prompto shakes the bed with his rolling off of it and rushing to help him up. It’s a duplicate of the time he’d woken up after Altissa, except this time he feels significantly less sore and more...tired. “Hey, hey, don’t move, you’re okay,” Prompto says urgently, and a hand finds itself to the small of Ignis’ back to help him up when he wobbles, nearly tilting to the side again as he tries to find his bearings. “ _Gladio,_  Iggy’s up!”

The rush of footsteps is loud, or maybe he’s just hyper aware of everything right then. Either way, Ignis finds himself crushed in a hug so tight that it actually hurts and his arms are pushed too far down to do anything like return it. He isn’t even sure if he could, honestly, given that he feels laughably weak. “I’m -- Gladiolus, if you please, I’ve just woken up and I do need to breathe--”

“It’s him,” Prompto breathes with relief clear and audible in his voice. That’s...odd. He’s the one who was blinded, not the other two so their shock at him waking and being...himself is disconcerting at best. “Gladio--”

“I know,” Gladiolus says roughly and Ignis is quite certain at this point that there’s something wrong. He can’t see it, but he can almost feel it in the air, the way that Prompto keeps shifting on the bed, the steady rattle of the buckles on his boots as he jangles his foot. The way that Gladiolus holds him so tightly and then releases, only for Prompto to do the same. They’ve never been quite this physically affectionate in all their years together, so the change is...jarring.

“...Not that I dislike the relief that I’ve woken but I can’t help but feel as if I’m _missing_  something,” Ignis says cautiously, both Gladiolus and Prompto retreating until he’s sitting between them, his cane passed into his hands. There’s no response, confirming his suspicions so he hedges further, “Is one of you going to tell me?”  

The continuing silence speaks volumes more than they’re willing to, apparently so he takes stock of himself instead. The faint connection that he’d felt is stronger now, but it’s like there’s a wall of some sort; he can’t access it right now. He feels weak as a baby bird; he can’t quite clench his fist so when he holds the cane, it’s loose. Whatever it is, whatever happened, wiped him so thoroughly that he’s not even certain what could have caused it.

“Gladio. You promised,” Prompto whispers, sounding like he’s just barely twenty again and they have bad news to deliver to someone - in this case, the someone is _him_  and he’s not particularly thrilled about that prospect.

“One of you needs to tell me what is going on, sooner rather than later if it’s all the same to you,” Ignis presses; he can’t look at them but he does his best to level a glare at Gladiolus, jaw clenched tight. He expects that he’s injured someone fiddling with magic that wasn’t his. He expects that they’ll tell him something went wrong and they had to fix it and they know he’s worried and will blame himself. He expects a thousand different scenarios, all varying degrees of awful and not one of them matches the truth.

“Ardyn’s back,” Gladiolus says slowly and it’s like the world’s tipped sideways all over again. A hand plants itself in the middle of his chest - Gladiolus’, the bastard, knowing Ignis so well that it’s probably habit. “Sit-- Siddown, Iggy, and listen to me before you go running off.”

Ignis draws himself up to the full height that he can while sitting down in a too-plush bed and clenches his fist on the cane, despite being able to do more than squeeze loosely. “I beg your pardon? You-- Ardyn -- the man, no, _the monster_  that’s responsible for orchestrating Lady Lunafreya, Noctis’ father, _and_  Noctis’ death among how many _countless others_  still lives and you -- why haven’t you _killed him_? Where is he?”

While Ignis and Noctis may not have been successful, certainly there had to have been a way if they know he’s alive now; surely he cannot still be immortal, not after everything. All that they sacrificed, all that they lost -- _all to stop Ardyn_ and he still lives? What good is a prophecy, a predetermined fate if the one who has to sacrifice everything for it falls, and the one who caused all of this lives to see another day?

“In the basement, tied to the casing for what’s left of the crystal. We thought that since that was what held Noct last time, and helped put Ardyn away, it’d be the best bet. It’s working, as far as we can tell,” Prompto says and Gladiolus makes a frustrated noise that seems to imply that oh, he wasn’t supposed to tell Ignis that yet. 

“In the _vault of the Citadel_?” Ignis demands, each subsequent word angrier than the last. He tries to rise up again and Gladiolus, the bastard pushes him back down again and if he does it one more time, Ignis is going to be sorely tempted to make him regret it. “Explain. Do not think to coddle me, Gladiolus, I’ve weathered disappointment more than once in my life.”

 “It ain’t that easy, okay, because nothing ever is when it comes to him. He -- s’pose two thousand years is a long time to plan a revenge and more than enough time to come up with a backup plan, no matter what the Gods said was possible,” Gladiolus mutters, shifting his weight on the bed. The weight of his hand finally vanishes, but it doesn’t matter because Ignis isn’t moving, not while everything is falling into place in his mind.

“Did I do this?” he asks before he can stop himself, inhaling sharply through his nose. There’s no instant answer which means the obvious: when he’d pulled Noctis back from wherever he was, he’d pulled Ardyn too. He’d done this. How it had gone so wrong, he didn’t know; it was one thing to pull Noctis out from wherever he was but to fail so miserably and completely and pull  _Ardyn._

He would have to be the one to fix it.

 

* * *

 

“Alone,” Ignis says sharply, despite their protests and he can almost see the way Gladiolus lifts both hands up and steps back, muttering, _fine_  under his breath. Tied to the Crystal, is, as it turns out, not entirely accurate. There’s the jangle of chains but it comes from too high up to be wrists and only from a central point - around the throat, then. Like a collar for a vicious dog; fitting, if it weren’t so infuriating that he yet lived. Apparently, the remains of the crystal is what’s sapping his strength, keeping him from leaving the room. Later, he’ll ask how they knew to do this so quickly after Ignis had accidentally brought him forth but right now, he walks as close as he dares and flinches at the sound of laughter, muffled with a gag.

Much as he hates the idea of listening to Ardyn for one minute more than he has to, he knows that if they’re going to fix this, he’ll need to ungag him, so he reaches out and presses a hand to his chest, feeling it shake underneath. Further up, there’s the collar, metal and lashed to the crystal itself but it’s almost as if the crystal remains are acting as a vacuum, holding Ardyn to it, preventing him from escape. The magic spilling from the room is nearly overwhelming, choking the closer he gets but he tugs the gag out.

For a dead man, he certainly doesn’t smell dead, or feel dead. If anything, he smells familiar: leather and something else. Whatever it is, he can’t place it, but it doesn’t matter; the magic in the room suddenly builds without warning, a low, loud hum emanating from the remains of the Crystal and Ardyn. He’s distantly aware of yelling from behind him - Gladiolus and Prompto slamming their fists on a door that seems suddenly locked, but it doesn’t matter. He can’t move, not with the white-hot light against his face. If he had the ability to see, he’d be blinded again, he’s certain of it. As it is, he flinches back, squeezing his eyes shut and lifts a hand to cover them because it’s overwhelming, it’s _painful_  and his eyes burn as if he’s put the ring on all over again. Whatever's happening, the magic is too much, flooding him, but instead of hurting like the ring, there's something else to it. Something familiar, soothing blue curling through the white-hot light of it.

When the magic stops, snapping like a taut thread cut loose, he can suddenly breathe again and drags in a shuddering breath. At his side, Noctis’ blade is heavy; it’s protection if he needs it, but he’s not even certain at this point if this was Ardyn’s doing or the crystal trying something. His hand lowers, settling by his side and when he opens his eyes it’s -- not dark. _It’s no longer dark._ He’s staring at dull gray stone, the inside of the vault beneath the Citadel and the sight of it is too jarring for him to comprehend at first. Tentatively, he lifts a hand and stares at it, realizing that when he moves his fingers he can see it. When the door to the room opens and Gladiolus and Prompto rush in, he turns, breathing shakily and _sees_ _._  

The shock on their faces is one thing, but the way they’ve changed is something else entirely. Ardyn can wait, though he’s being oddly complacent and silent; he’s too busy being distracted by the atrocious facial hair Prompto’s grown, and the way that Gladiolus has grown out his hair far longer than Ignis ever thought possible.  

“Did the crystal-?” Gladiolus starts, just as Prompto, soft and panicked goes, “No, oh, oh _no,_  we gotta get him out of here, Gladio--”

 _Why_? Ignis thinks, frowning at them and losing the expression instantly as he his hand, stares at his fingers in disbelief.

“Oh, no no, it’s far too late for that, I’m afraid,” says a voice behind him, butter-smooth and smug.

The voice isn’t Ardyn’s.

Both Gladiolus and Prompto look like they’re seconds away from panicking or lashing out and Ignis turns bit by bit until he’s staring at the crystal and the man lashed to it. “Hel _lo_ , there. It’s been quite a while for you, hasn’t it. For me, but the blink of an eye, all things considered. Oh. Is that-- insensitive? I assumed I could make such jokes, given that Noctis and I fixed that particular _problem_ , but perhaps not.”

“Iggy,” Gladiolus says, very slow, very careful, his boots falling heavily until he reaches Ignis’ back and tries to touch his shoulder. “We need to go. This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“What did you _do to him_?” Ignis snarls and this time, Gladiolus doesn’t hesitate to grab at him, holding him back. Noctis’ blade is heavy, achingly heavy at his side and he wants to draw it, wants to kill him for ever thinking he could take Noctis’ face and live. He’s taken so much already, but not him, not like this.

“Why, what did _I_  do? Nothing, I’m afraid; that was all Noctis before I squashed him back down again. I told you, I never had the chance to be called majesty, or highness,” Ardyn says in Noctis’ low, smooth voice, somehow managing to make it sound all wrong, ugly and oily and unsettling. “I thought to give you another chance! After all, second or third time's the charm, is it not?”

He lunges forward again, barely stopped in time by Gladiolus who wraps one meaty arm around his chest and presses his lips to his ear. “I know. I know, okay, but you can’t. _Trust me_.”

It’s hard to trust someone who apparently wasn’t going to tell him that not only was their enemy back, but he was possessing the body of the very man he’d actively tried to kill for years. A man that Ignis had, somehow accidentally brought back but brought back  _wrong._

“Share with the class, now, no sweet nothings in his ear where I can’t hear. After all, what would your dear, sweet Noctis think?” Ardyn sing-songs, smiling with Noctis’ face, but it’s grotesque and when he leans forward against the chain holding his throat and the pull of the crystal, Ignis sees the golden glow instead of his too-blue eyes, the black ichor staining his gums, his teeth, just like his nightmare. “Now now, you needn’t look so shocked. I told you - two thousand years is a _terribly_  long time to plan one’s revenge. I knew you wouldn’t have any trouble killing me if things went poorly, of course - no accounting for taste, but this one. _Oh,_  this one would be safe. You were, after all, willing to lose your life for him and well of course, he loved-- ah, _loves_  you so in return. Or did you think that all of those moments were your imagination? I know he was particularly fond of ensuring you were taken care of those nights where you may have _indulged_ a little too much. Tsk.”

Gladiolus goes tense behind him and Ignis stills, hating that he’s so easy to bait, hating that Ardyn knows just where to angle the knife, strike and _dig_  to make it hurt more than anything else in the world. There’s no telling the extent of what he’s talking about, but Ignis won’t trust a single word he says. He can’t. Whatever connection they had that allowed him to warp also seemed to allow Noctis to try and contact him and he hadn’t been listening.

“Oh. You didn’t know? Or perhaps you don’t _believe_ me. That _hurts_.” Ardyn’s hands go palm up and his shoulders lift in an idle shrug, nonchalant. “I do suppose he died before he could follow through on all of that. A pity. Trust me, if I had the option, this isn’t the mortal body I would have chosen, but it seemed safest and it’s the one the Astrals had chosen to bestow their powers onto. No accounting for taste on their part either, tragically. You all were _so_  terribly eager to kill me the last time that I couldn’t take any risks and all that _power_  -- so very alluring, certainly you understand. He may not grasp how to use it, but you certainly expedited the process of us being able to be here and for _that_  you have my  _very sincerest_  thanks.”

 Ignis swallows hard against the bile that rises up and instead forces himself to commit every word to memory. Ardyn slipped up before - he hadn’t intended to die earlier, hadn’t intended for Noctis to be the one to succeed. This was a back up plan, which mean that they had thwarted him once. They would be able to a second time, so long as they kept their heads. Possessing Noctis was simply a means to get under their skin, to make them careless and they could not fall for it. Gently, Ignis reaches back and pats Gladiolus’ thigh out of sight, straining against the arm once more like he’s fighting, hoping that Gladiolus will understand.

“Where is Noct?” Ignis asks slowly, evenly, like he’s barely leashing his anger. It’s true enough, but he knows he needs to focus, to make sure that Ardyn is the one who makes mistakes here, not him. If it’s just his body, Ignis can -- well. He’s not certain he can end this as easily as he’d like or as he needs to, but he’ll do what he can to stop this from happening all over again. If he is in there, though -- Ignis doesn’t know what they’ll do.

The door behind them opens and closes as Prompto comes closer and presses a hand to Ignis’ shoulder. “He’s just fucking with you guys. We need to leave. The Crystal’s keeping him stuck here; if he wants to be stuck in the Citadel’s basement for the rest of time, we’ll dump it in the bottom of the ocean and no one has to know.”

That has an effect on Ardyn and Ignis latches onto the momentary surprise that he sees there. “True enough,” he agrees, shaking Gladiolus off gently. “He has no way of proving if Noctis is even there; not that we’d believe him anyway. I say we rid ourselves of this once and for all. If you drown, then so be it. If you don’t and you’re simply _stuck_  there? Then all the better. Forever is quite a long time and I am not often given to spite, but for you I will make an exception.”

It feels good for once, to have some form of upper hand. Ardyn wasn’t anticipating that, no doubt counting on their grief and exhaustion to blind them to the reality of the situation and now he’s forced to recalculate. Prompto leads the way back out of the room, Gladiolus following with Ignis lingering a second, a mean little smile on his lips before he starts to follow. He expects Ardyn to mock them, perhaps, or bargain. What he doesn’t expect is a wet intake of breath, a ragged groan and then a voice that was _not_  Ardyn’s speaking through Noctis’ mouth.  

“Iggy? Gladio?” Noctis’ voice is trembling, ragged like he’s been screaming himself hoarse despite Ardyn using his voice just fine earlier. There’s a pause as Ignis turns back around, not daring to believe it - not daring to believe he can both see him and hear him, that it could actually _be_  him. It must be another trick by Ardyn; there’s no other explanation but it _looks_  like Noctis. He’s sagging weakly in the chains rather than fighting them or sitting there, smug. He looks _exhausted_ , almost smaller somehow in the shadow of the fractured Crystal.

There’s a moment where his eyes meet Ignis’ and he smiles: tiny, fleeting, like he used to when they were younger and Ignis would allow him to foist his vegetables off onto his plate without complaint. Then, it’s gone. Then, he seems to realize what’s happened and he throws himself back into the crystal, gasping as the uneven chunks of rock hit him in the back, knocking the wind from him. “No, no - guys, you gotta, please you have to kill us, you have to, he can’t have this power, you don’t understand, Ignis, Ignis, please, _please_ , do it now you have to I’m giving you permission, I’m **ordering**  you--”  

It’s like watching him die all over again.

Ignis can see the moment that Ardyn claws his way back up. Noctis freezes in place, back straight and starts shaking so hard his teeth rattle. He can count on one hand the number of times that he’s seen Noctis genuinely terrified and this is one of them. It’s clearly a fight; blue eyes flicker from their normal color, to ring-powered purple, to gold, and then just like that, he’s gone. The gold bleeds out from his pupils, swallows the blue and Ardyn shakes himself out, leaning back against the Crystal’s pull with a laugh.

“...Well. I suppose I should have counted on Noctis’ suicidal tendencies, but alas. Thank you, by the way, for not taking him up on that offer; that would have been extremely inconvenient for all parties involved, most of all me. Of course -- I suppose you _can't_  do that.” Ardyn licks his lips, considering as he stares Ignis down, ignoring the others. He’d prefer to think it’s because Ardyn considers him a threat, but has a feeling it’s because he knows how to hurt Ignis the worst out of all of them and that’s his ultimate goal. “He is right, of course; to kill me, you’ll have to kill him. I wouldn’t _lie_ about something so _serious_.”  

“We’ll find a way to remove you from him,” Ignis promises, and then realizes if Noctis can hear them, he’s likely watching all of this and for a moment, he wants to be ill. Watching all of this happening with no way to stop it - with it being your _body_ , he can’t imagine the violation of it. “Noctis, do you hear me? I promise -- I _swear_  we will find a way to fix this.”

Distantly, he hears the other two agree and barely resists the urge to show his displeasure when Ardyn laughs loudly, mockingly and waves off their promises like the words are gnats buzzing around him. “Ignis Scientia, isn’t it? I had to dig; he doesn’t think of you with that last name very often. It’s Ignis, or Iggy, or -- well, I suppose he’s due some secrets, especially salacious one involving you taking on his name. Ignis Scientia is so _boring_ , though, don’t you think? I suppose if you follow through on his request, everyone else will have a new name for you, won’t they? Ignis the Betrayer, there’s a title, though it’s still awfully plain. What...about… oh, _yes_. Ignis _Kingslayer_. I know he never had a _proper_  coronation, a true shame, but I do have to give credit where credit is due. Ignis Kingslayer. There’s a _strong_  name. One for the history books."  

“Ignis,” Gladiolus says behind him, warning, like he’s not sure if he ought to pick Ignis up and sling him over his shoulder or let him stay there.

Probably, removing him from the situation is the safest bet but fury is a funny thing and Ignis lets it course through him for the time being because being angry is easier than being heartbroken over the realization of what he has to do.

“Yes, _Iggy_ , listen to your little -- well, not so _little_  friend. You have a decision to make, after all. I hear you’ve been positively instrumental in running my little kingdom here - from what I can tell, like quite the well oiled machine. Thank you _ever_  so much, by the way. Words can’t even begin to describe how wonderful it is to know that someone _competent_  was holding onto that spot for me until I could return.” Ardyn leans against the chain holding his throat so hard that he chokes and laughs, which just causes him to choke more. It’s an awful sound - it’s _Noctis_  choking and Ignis jerks in response but forces himself not to move forward. “I wasn’t going to let him heal you - an awfully difficult thing, despite all that power locked away, but now, I think it was the best idea. I _do so_  want you to see everything we’re capable of.”

“We’re leaving,” Ignis grits out unevenly, not bothering to look at him a moment longer. Prompto opens the door for them and the sound of Noctis’ laughter haunts them on the way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally this entire fic was written because i wanted ardyn to be mean to ignis and i had to write the line, "Ignis _Kingslayer_. I know he never had a _proper_ coronation, a true shame, but I do have to give credit where credit is due. Ignis Kingslayer. There’s a _strong_ name.” 
> 
> anyway ilu ardyn you're a piece of shit, a true Problematic Fav.
> 
> ALSO AS OF MAY 14TH OMFGGG, THIS NOW COMES WITH A COMIC/ART!! Check it out [ RIGHT HERE by Jaciopara on tumblr!](http://jaciopara.tumblr.com/post/173848714167/more-fanwork-for-the-fic-kingslayer-by-chii) Thank you so much!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not that the bastard said anything good, but he was especially wrong about this,” Gladiolus says with the tiniest bit of approval - not a smile, and not hope, but something close on his face. “Ignis Scientia has a pretty damn good ring to it right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UHHHH WOW YEAH sorry this took a while to update. I had a funeral and then PAX South and a whole bunch of other stuff that basically destroyed me for the month of Dec/Jan but hey, on the plus side, an update! It's all uphill from here, folks.

It feels like walking away from a battle they lost without even being able to fight. It feels wrong, like they’ve failed Noctis -- like _he's_ failed Noctis. Bringing him back was one thing, but bringing him back with Ardyn as some sort of parasite in control of his body? How did Ardyn even know that he would do that? If Noctis was going to come back somehow anyway - which seemed possible, given what Ardyn implied, then _how_? 

“I just-- what are we supposed to do?” Prompto whispers, head in his hands. Gladiolus has threatened to punch a wall a half-dozen times so far and Ignis has been poring over every single book that he can find about the ring, the crystal, the line of Lucis trying to figure out how this happened and how to stop it. “We can’t -- I can’t -- it’s _Noct._ ” 

“He’s right, Iggy,” Gladio says, as if it’s not already fully evident that if Noctis really is in there, killing him is almost out of the question. “Magic caused this mess; I don’t know if magic is gonna be the thing to fix it.” 

Ignis runs over the conversation in his mind again for the tenth time, at least. Mortal. Mortal is the important part, but not the most important part. There’s something he’s missing among all this magic and lore and endless other things that aren’t tangible, that he can’t fight. This isn’t his strong suit, exactly. He can use logic, and knowledge to solve things but how do you combat _magic_  and two thousand years of planning? 

“Whatever we’re gonna do, we wanna do fast. It ain’t gonna look good if we’ve got the King leashed to the crystal in the basement and we didn’t tell anyone. Bad enough we had to move it which is gonna cause questions, but we shut down the whole lower wing. Sooner or later, someone’s gonna go poking around where they shouldn’t and if they do-” 

“We’ll have another set of problems on our hands, yes, I am quite aware of the stakes,” Ignis mutters, flipping through another book, scanning for any sign of something, anything that can help them. How do you kill someone hiding in someone else and save the host? Perhaps a book on parasites would help, but even that is a stretch at best. How do you kill a parasite without harming the host? Ignis’ finger pauses over the next page and then he snaps the book shut so fiercely both Prompto and Gladiolus jump. “The body he’s in is mortal while he consolidates power, yes?” 

“Uh. Yeah? That’s what he implied, anyway,” Gladiolus sinks heavily to the chair next to him and oh, _oh_ , it may be an awful situation but it’s so good to see him again. “Talk to me here, Iggy. Work it out.” 

“It’s not a particularly good plan or one I’m excited about, but it’s simple enough. If he’s still consolidating his power, and he’s depending on our -- fondness for Noctis to prevent us from killing him until he can free himself, then we could do just that.” It’s a testament to how long they’ve all known each other that no one yells right away, no one demands to know what the hell he’s talking about. Instead, Prompto curls his hands into fists in his lap and Gladiolus is silent, staring him down. “There are certain kinds of poison that will kill a person quicker if administered directly into the bloodstream. If Noctis dies -- is physically dead, that, in theory, should eliminate Ardyn’s presence inside him, yes? If Ardyn doesn’t know that the blow wasn’t lethal and simply attributes the poison to the damage a knife wound would cause, it could work. If we have a phoenix down that we can administer directly after and we can resuscitate him-” 

“We’re just bringin’ back Noct, not the hitchhiker,” Gladiolus finishes. There's a long, awful pause where he stares at Ignis, and Ignis knows what he's working over in their mind. They've already almost lost him once. Doing this means they're risking losing him again. If Ignis had all the time in the world he'd do research, he'd try to figure out something but Ardyn had two thousand years, and they have hours, if that. Blessedly, though, Gladiolus is silent for a long moment and then nods. “If that’s the case, we gotta do it fast. How fast can we get whatever poison you’re thinking of?” 

“Twenty minutes, maximum. I simply need to speak to Cor.” They don’t question him; they don’t doubt him, they simply agree and trust and Ignis stands, reaching for the cane on habit but realizing that if he can see it to reach for it, it’s unnecessary. This will work; this has to work.  Giving Ardyn any more time to consolidate his power is absolutely unthinkable and Noctis would never forgive them if they agonized over this for days only for it to not work.

“Not that the bastard said anything good, but he was especially wrong about this,” Gladiolus says with the tiniest bit of approval - not a smile, and not hope, but something _close_  on his face. “Ignis Scientia has a pretty damn good ring to it right now.”  
  


* * *

 

In the end, everything ends much like the final battle. 

Ignis enters, Noctis’ dagger at his side. _Walk Tall_ , he thinks to himself, ignoring the ragged, uneven laughter of Ardyn as he comes closer. 

“Oh, _well_ , that took much less time than I anticipated. You are full of surprises, aren’t you. Have you come to make a deal? I’ll admit: I considered it. With all these powers at my fingertips, I could, of course, put Noctis in another body for all of you. I’ll have to kill you afterward, just to be certain, but I suppose I could allow you a few moments. He does have so very much he wants to say to you, after all. So many missed opportunities! So many unsaid _feelings._ ” Ardyn leans against the bindings once more, arms spread wide, the gesture unsettling, foreign with Noct’s body being used for it. “Would you like me to say it just once, so you hear it before I wipe all of you from existence? Those three little words that mean _so_  much. ” 

No-- _no_. This is going to work, they’re going to save Noctis and if he truly feels that way, then Ignis is going to hear it from his own lips, not from the monster puppeting him

“I’d rather not if it’s all the same to you. You cannot be allowed to leave this room; Noct-- Noctis will understand.” It doesn’t take much to sell this like it’s a gut-wrenching decision that he’s chosen to make; it is. If he fails - if he nicks something important when the blade drives deep, or if he isn’t able to revive him, or if Ardyn is still there when they bring him back, they’re back to square one. This has to work. It has to, and if it does, he doesn’t want those words sullied. “Noctis, if you can hear me I-- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry--

Clearly, Ardyn doesn’t expect him to do it. He opens his mouth - to try and convince him to delay, no doubt, but Ignis takes two quick steps forward. The blade is heavy in his hand, sharp enough that he cut his thumb on it earlier, testing it. There's no room for hesitation, for doubt; he's worked with the daggers to know where to aim and _push._ It’s not enough for the Astrals that Noctis has to die by the sword one time; it has to happen again. The unfairness of it is so sharp and awful that Ignis thinks he could scream as if he’s the one being cleaved open by a weapon. This has to work, because Noctis deserves nothing else but to  _rest._

The blade sinks in easily, so, so easily, parting flesh like butter and slides up to the hilt. There’s no need to fake the tears, or the whispered apologies as Ignis stands there, holds the blade in place and lifts his other hand to cup Noctis’ cheek. It’s Ardyn at the forefront, he knows that and the vicious little smile only proves it but if this doesn’t work, if Noctis actually dies right now, he won’t die thinking Ignis didn’t care. He won’t die alone, or with just Ardyn occupying his mind, his body. If Ignis fails him, then he’ll at least die knowing that Ignis cared, that they all cared. “I’m so sorry, we can’t let him do this,” Ignis whispers, and presses their foreheads together, willing Noctis to understand. 

“I--” Ardyn starts and stops, but it’s Noctis’ face that looks horrifically confused for a moment. Ignis finishes counting down in his head - plenty of time for the poison to be work through the bloodstream and time still where he can withdraw it and Noctis won’t bleed out. It has to be convincing. It has to hurt and he’s terribly sorry because he never wants to be the one to hurt Noctis, but he will if it needs to be done. That’s his job - the duty that Regis entrusted him to fulfill.  Noctis wouldn’t want to live like this. They may not have discussed everything they wanted to in the time they had, but they were all certain of that.

The blade slips out just as easy as it went in, but the ragged, hurt noise that Ardyn makes with Noctis’ body is horrible to listen to all the same. Blood wells from the cut and Ignis has to fight to not put pressure on it, to make certain that he didn’t hit anything vital, but thankfully, Ardyn takes care of that. Self-preservation at its finest. He sinks into the remains of the crystal like a throne, going limp so quickly that Ignis has to rush and cup the back of his head to prevent the collar from jerking against his neck. Blood seeps between his fingers and dribbles down his suit, staining it a darker black, shining in the reflected light of the Crystal. Ardyn-with-Noctis’ face chokes, gurgling on thick spit - whether it's ichor or his own blood, Ignis doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know. Noctis' face twists from wounded to _pleased_ , as if he's not bleeding out right then and there, as if poison isn't killing him and Ardyn slurs, “Ignis Kingslayer it is.” 

It’s one thing to know that Noctis will be functionally dead. It’s another to watch the life leave him, to see him go loose and limp and slide to the floor out of the makeshift chair the Crystal acted as and to fall into a heap of limbs. It’s jarringly reminiscent of when they had to pull the sword from his body on the throne.  

A puddle of blood grows around him him and with each pulse, Ignis keeps the same count in his head. When he bends down, finally, and touches his fingers to Noctis’ neck there’s nothing there. There’s no breath, there’s just an awful stillness. He’s painfully, terrifyingly motionless all over again and Ignis waits an extra two seconds to be certain and then withdraws the needle.  Cor was very specific about where and when to perform the steps but they hadn’t allowed him to come down - if this blew back on all of them, Cor was the best equipped to handle things in their stead. He needed some form of plausible deniability. The antidote glows an unearthly orange-red, cut with Phoenix Down with another in Ignis’ hand to crush, just in case diluting it doesn’t work. There’s a white-hot burst of magic in his hand and then the magic falls against Noctis’ chest in glowing sparkles like miniature falling stars. 

Then begins another count, while Ignis carefully hefts Noctis up, Gladiolus sliding into the room a moment later to help him. They get him settled back on the Crystal as gently as they can, Ignis lifting a hand to protect the back of his head and neck from further damage and then, they wait. The waiting is arguably the worst part; by all rights, the antidote laced with Phoenix Down should work almost instantaneously but it’s not as if the poison has ever been used with the intent to have an antidote administered after death. 

“...Iggy?” Prompto asks quietly, edging closer bit by bit like a skittish animal. Behind Ignis, Gladiolus presses a massive hand to Ignis’ back while they wait, and Ignis keeps the countdown going. It feels like it takes literal ages, despite seconds passing. “Iggy, he’s not- it’s not--” 

“We know, Prompto,” Gladiolus answers sharply before Ignis’ count is lost. 

_ Five, four, three ( _ Noctis, please--) _ , two, one--  _

Nothing. 

Blessedly, Gladiolus doesn’t say anything when the countdown finishes. There’s no question, no comment, nothing but an overwhelming silence as Noctis doesn’t move and Ignis stares, willing him alive. There’s no ring to make demands of, and the crystal isn’t whole any longer but Ignis  _knows_ they’re listening. They’ve invested too much in the chosen king for them to  _not._

“You’ve taken everything from him. You let him be brought back and used, when he was supposed to be able to rest, you _owed_  him that. You owe him this, now.” Ignis reaches out despite himself, touching Noctis’ cheek with a trembling hand, speaking to the crystal, Shiva, his predecessors, anyone who might be listening. They owe all of them this but owe Noctis most of all. They can’t let him be brought back from the dead, only to be Ardyn’s plaything. He deserved better than that and the universe owes him better. His forebears owe him more than this.  Begging is better than threats - they're still gods, of a sort, and Ignis isn't so foolish as to believe that they can be swayed with threats alone, but the temptation is there all the same. Noctis makes him capable of all kinds of things he's never considered.“ _Please."_

“Iggy,” Gladiolus says softly with his hand migrating from Ignis’ back to around his shoulders, tugging him in firmly until he connects with a soft _whumph_ that muffles the horrible noise torn from his throat. “Iggy, we talked about this. It isn’t your fault, you know Noct’d never blame you for this. You did what you had to and you--” 

On the remains of the crystal, Noctis makes a horrific, shuddering, wet noise and a new gush of blood spills forth from the injury. His body arches and twists, almost like a seizure and Ignis is struck too dumb to move, breathing soft and shallow as he tries to figure out if he should be grabbing the dagger again, or if he should unlock the chain around his neck holding him to the crystal. 

Gladiolus won’t let him move even if he was able to and so Prompto staggers forward, reaching out to touch Noctis’ shoulder with just his fingertips. It’s agonizing waiting for him to recover; they don’t dare stop the bleeding until they know for sure, lest they accidentally save the wrong person but a moment later, Noctis’ eyes flutter open and his eyes are _blue_. He chokes on whatever it is he was going to say and then starts coughing, wet, deep coughs that make Ignis’ stomach turn and cause blood to bubble up from the injury, from his lips. He staggers out of Gladiolus’ grip and goes next to Prompto to press a hand to the injury while Gladiolus goes running for the kit with bandages outside the room

“Shh-- Noct, just breathe, you’re alright.” Ignis lies, cupping his face with one hand and presses hard over the injury with the other, trying to stop the ooze of blood from spilling over any further than it has already. “Noct, stay with us. Look at me.”

Whatever Noctis was going to say is lost in another round of violent, wet coughs and then his face twists and he turns his head to the side, spitting up tar, black and thick, bubbling as it slides down his chin and splatters wetly in his lap. For a moment, Ignis is horrifically afraid that it’s blood, but when the lights flicker on with a hum and the room is lifted from dimly lit to bright he sees that it’s the same black ichor that had been oozing from Ardyn while possessing him. Spitting it up is most likely the best thing that could happen. One hand settles at the small of Noctis’ back and Ignis curls a leg under himself, folding the other man into him, letting him use Ignis as a brace. Soon, he’s settled back and Ignis presses against the wound helplessly. If Noctis bleeds out here after everything, after another chance, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. “ _Gladio."_

In his arms, Noctis makes another wretched noise and hacks up another chunk of tar, spitting it helplessly onto the ground, trembling so hard in Ignis’ arms that it’s almost its own kind of concerning.  It happens again, and again and Ignis presses his face into Noctis’ hair and whispers nonsense, listening to the awful heaving noises as whatever is in him is purged while his hand pushes firmly against the wound and Prompto keeps up a shaky thread of one-sided conversation for Noctis.

Everything else passes in a blur; Gladiolus hauls the kit in and together they slice Noctis’ shirt off of him and start bandaging as best as they can until they can carry him up the stairs and into somewhere the medical team can take a look at him. Noctis passes out halfway through, slurring incoherent words that they’re relatively certain are their names. Much as Ignis wants to help, Gladiolus is most capable of lifting him up and running up the stairs so he and Prompto follow as quickly as they can. 

Doctors buzz around him once he’s laid out and after what feels like an age of waiting outside the king’s quarters, hands soaked in the king’s blood, they come back out. Ignis that he’d done as well as could be expected with stabbing someone; nothing vital was damaged and he was mostly at risk from the poison or bleeding out, neither of which are issues any longer.

Gladiolus handles the inquiries by the other Crownsguard and Kingsglaive both while Prompto gently ushers Ignis into the bathroom and fetches fresh clothing that isn’t covered in Noctis’ blood. He washes mechanically, watching the water swirl pink at his feet and then get washed away until he’s left standing in the hot spray so long that Prompto knocks, concerned. Dressing feels as if it takes ages but soon enough he’s prepared and led back into the room the doctors are slowly exiting, telling them that all they can do now is wait for him to wake up properly. 

They take shifts, waiting for him to wake; the first six hours crawl by. Prompto naps on a chaise in the King’s quarters while Gladiolus and Ignis alternate sitting and pacing, exhausted but unable to sleep. By hour eight, it’s been thirty six hours since Ignis slept and he’s feeling it, but Noctis is pale and still and he has to be there when he wakes, he  _has to._

By hour forty three, Gladiolus has dragged two more chaises into the room and they’ve set up post around the bed. Monica brings by food for all of them and Ignis picks at it, barely tasting. By hour forty seven, he gives up and rests, annoyed by the weakness of his body. 

Fifty one hours into Noctis’ rest, his breathing changes and he stirs against the sheets.

Ignis sleeps through it, exhaustion winning out but Prompto is awake, smacking both his shoulder and Gladiolus’ to wake them before crawling up over the bed, resting on his knees as he waits.

Ignis wishes he could say he wakes quickly, but sleep holds onto him, leaves him groggy and disoriented; combined with not understanding how he can suddenly _see_ , it takes him a moment to take inventory of everything. Once it hits he’s staggering to the bed, sitting heavily on the edge. Next to him, Prompto is practically vibrating with nervous energy, hands fisted in the comforter. Noctis’ eyelashes keep fluttering like he’s trying to open his eyes but can’t quite win the battle and all of them wait, holding their breath until it seems to work. Noctis stares blearily at all of them, looking terribly young against the sheets and massive pillows he’s been settled against. 

“Noct? Hey, buddy, how are you feelin’?” Prompto leans forward, practically vibrating with how much he’s holding back, only to make a loud noise of shock when Noctis reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing limply. 

“Feels like I got stabbed,” Noctis says, words still slurred slightly, no doubt from the copious amount of painkillers the Crown’s doctors pumped into his system to keep him sedated as well as out of pain. Then, with more feeling and a little more awareness: “ _Ow._ ” 

It’s terribly anti-climatic; there’s no soft words, or declarations of love, or long looks. Noctis squeezes Prompto’s hand and accepts Gladiolus reaching over to ruffle his hair furiously in lieu of shaking him like he no doubt wants to. Ignis remains sitting there, suddenly anxious. He thinks Noctis will understand the necessity of what they did - what he did, given their options but how can he know for sure? What if he doesn’t, what if he’s furious, what if he doesn’t trust Ignis again? He was supposed to protect Noctis from harm, not be the one to harm him.

He remains as still as possible, desperately trying to give Noctis time to decide what he wants to do and tries not to work himself up over something he can’t help; whatever Noctis decides, he’ll abide. When Noctis’ sleepy eyes turn on him, Ignis smiles hesitantly and reaches out his hand for Noctis to take. The meaning isn’t lost on either of them; Noctis sighs quietly and releases Prompto’s hand a moment so he can clasp it with both of his, squeezing weakly. 

“Your Majesty,” Ignis says quietly, and presses a lingering kiss to his knuckles, shamelessly tilting his face into the touch when Noctis’ hand slips away and cups his cheek, tracing the scarring that the healing of his eyes never touched. “It’s good to see you again.” 

For a moment, there’s silence and then both Prompto and Gladiolus break it with shaky, nervous laughs that dissolve into true laughter, followed by Noctis, smiling small and tired but _alive_  tugging him down until his face is half-mashed into Noctis’ shoulder and a hand is wound in his hair (it’s greasy, unwashed, Noct shouldn’t--), fingers stroking gently. It’s enough. 

* * *

Eventually, Ignis realizes they will have to address this...thing between them. It doesn’t have a name yet, too fledgling and new to be anything more than a consideration based on what Ardyn revealed. It may not even be true; Gladiolus and Prompto certainly seem to think so when it’s brought up, because of course they do. They’re loyal to Noctis to the last, but they’re also all so well acquainted with each other that support is able to circle right back around into gleeful teasing and brotherly mockery. They’re all in their 30s now - they ought to be above such things but Ignis knows better than to ask for the impossible.

Normally, such a thing would be directed at the both of them, but with Noctis fast asleep in his too-large bed and doctors fussing over him all hours, Ignis is set to bear the brunt of their teasing until he wakes. It starts over breakfast a couple mornings later. Ignis is bent over a series of reports, a highlighter in one hand, coffee within reach of his other hand. The morning light streams through the blinds that he’s pushed as far open as is humanly possible. It used to be that he would sit in this very position just so he could feel it; now, every so often he looks over and drinks in the sight of the city sprawled around the Citadel and savors the fact that he can see it. 

There are an endless number of reports to go over no matter how hard he works; without a functioning head of state and Ignis otherwise occupied,  things had slowed to a crawl and tasks that had taken him a short amount of time in the past had taken him twice or three times as long while blind. It had been infuriating, but there were precious few people left to take over such things so he had done it. Now, he can go faster but it’s like trying to drain the ocean with a thimble. 

Across the table, Prompto is similarly busy, a tablet set up in front of him as he goes over the roster of equipment that was submitted by one of the hunter groups, making sure that they divvy up the equipment to repair other areas of the city in the order provided, not in the order of loudest and on.

Gladiolus isn’t even pretending to be useful right now; he’s watching Ignis with this stupid little smile on his face, smug down to his bones and Ignis is decidedly ignoring it. Even if he were still blind, he’d feel the weight of that look, that smile. He won’t be the first one to break; if Gladiolus wants to make a comment on the state of things, then he’ll do it. Ignis won’t be the one to fall to his level. 

It goes on a ridiculous amount of time; every so often, Ignis looks up and locks eyes with him, quirking an eyebrow like he’s daring him to say something but there’s only silence. Finally, when he finishes one page and moves onto the next, Gladiolus stretches languidly like a massive, smug cat. 

“I feel like I can safely say I told you so here,” Gladiolus says, and it’s so pleased Ignis can’t even be allowed the pride of knowing Gladiolus would be the first to break. Ignis puts down the highlighter with a sigh and cups his coffee with both hands, taking a long sip. Would that the Ebony factories were up and running again so he didn’t rely on extremely dated ones stored inside the Citadel; he has the power to divert supplies to them to ensure the factory gets going, but isn’t about to abuse his station for caffeine despite the temptation of it. Plain coffee it is until then, rationing out the remaining Ebony like a starving man on an island.

“I feel like you really do not need to say anything of the sort,” Ignis returns, watching Prompto’s head lift and his lips curl into a smile that’s far too pleased to indicate that he intends to stay out of this verbal sparring match. Of course. “We’ve no idea if Ardyn was ever telling the truth outside of the very obvious relating to how to slay him.” 

“Uh, dude? Noctis was in love with you for like, ever. Ever-ever.” Prompto rests both elbows on the table and it takes everything in Ignis to resist telling him to take them off. “Ardyn was totally full of shit on a lot of things, but that? I don’t think _that's_  one of them.

“Iggy, c’mon. You know what both of us mean; don’t pretend like you don’t,” Gladiolus, the traitor, leans across the table, arms crossed, and smirks. “I’d put all the coin I have on a bet that says Ardyn was telling the truth for once. You don’t get to avoid this; the number of people who get second chances like this are--"

" _No one_ gets second chances like Noctis has as he’s come back from the dead and I’m not sure I know anyone who has performed such a feat,” Ignis interrupts before Gladiolus can finish. He feels a momentary flash of guilt; it’s not often he does that and the surprise shows on Gladiolus’ face, but he won’t do this, not right now. Even if his affections were returned, even if Noctis felt the same way and wished to explore...something with him, he has a thousand other things to think about and Ignis will _not_  distract him from that. First and foremost, he has to wake up again and get better. The doctors say he should be up and moving any day now, but once he is, he is required to take it easy. “No one has so much resting on his shoulders, either. He’s just come back from -- he’s just come back. Everyone is going to want something from him and it’s Noctis; he will do everything he can to provide it. I won’t add to that list.” 

“I mean...that’s noble and all, but you ever think that maybe he deserves something he wants, too?” Prompto asks thoughtfully and it’s enough that both Gladiolus and Ignis both look over at him. “Noct’s spent pretty much his whole life being told what his duty is or what he’s going to do and most of his choices were made for him. Maybe you oughta let him make a choice for himself, here."

The worst part is that Prompto is right. The second worst part is that Gladiolus is smirking again, looking a little proud and a lot smug as he shifts his attention to Ignis, but before anyone can say anything else there’s the sound of the dining room door opening. Ignis sighs, expecting someone needing the report he was working on earlier, but when he turns it’s not one of the attendants or one of the doctors with an update. Standing in the doorway, holding it like if he doesn’t, he’ll tip over, is Noctis. 

“Uh. Am I interrupting?” Noctis asks hesitantly, glancing between the three of them like he’s not quite certain if he ought to turn around and trek back to his room or stay and figure out why two of them look smug and Ignis looks harried. “The doctors said I should take a short walk, so--” 

The room erupts into a flurry of movement; Prompto goes to fetch something for breakfast, Gladiolus rises and smacks Ignis’ shoulder to get him to go over and he’s helpless to obey. There’s the scrape of the chair over the ground but it’s barely notable because all of Ignis’ attention is focused on his king as he stands in the doorway. He looks -- well, honestly, he looks like shit. He shouldn’t even be up, shouldn’t have walked all the way here even if it’s a short enough distance, not with that injury but of course it’s Noctis and he’s nothing if not painfully, annoyingly stubborn. 

“I have a feeling that the short walk the doctors were encouraging you to take was around your room, not halfway across the Citadel,” Ignis says before he can stop himself, watching Noctis’ lips twitch up in a clear indication of that being correct. Of course. Not even a week and Noctis is already pushing boundaries. “It used to be we couldn’t get you out of bed for love or money, and now you choose to be obstinate?”

“Details. I made it, didn’t I?” Noctis says, waving off the concern, and Ignis reaches out to steady him, a hand on his arm, guiding him to the dining table. Of course -- of _course_  Gladiolus has placed the extra seat terribly close to Ignis’ own and there’s no way to move it without being obvious, especially when Prompto scoots over to place a bowl of oatmeal and mixed fruits in Noctis’ spot. He’ll have to move his paperwork to make sure that it doesn’t risk getting wet if something spills but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that Noctis leans heavily into his side, tightly winding an arm around Ignis’ waist as they make their way over to the table. “Not interrupting anything, am I?” 

“No, of course not. Nothing important,” Ignis reassures hurriedly, settling him in the chair so he can make his way over to where the cups are and fill one with coffee, doctoring it with enough cream and sugar to make teeth rot. He settles it by Noctis’ bowl and then places himself down back at his seat, holding his coffee so he doesn’t do anything else with his hands like reach out to Noctis and reassure himself that he’s really there. “Should you really be up and moving so soon?” 

“Yeah, Iggy’s right - you took a pretty hard hit and you gotta take care of yourself, man,” Prompto says, spoon in his oatmeal, pushing it back and forth idly. Blessedly, the prior thread of conversation is seemingly lost in the concern. “We were all -- we were real worried about you.”

Noctis winds his hands around his coffee cup, unconsciously mirroring Ignis and for a moment, Ignis is caught admiring his hands, the way he holds the cup. He shakes himself of the ridiculous thought after a pause, turning his attention to his own coffee, taking a long draught while Noctis sits there. “If I stayed in that room any longer I was going to grow attached to the bed and one of you would’ve had to peel me off of it. Trust me, I’m fine."

No one believes that for a godsdamned minute but they also don’t argue it, knowing better. Ignis starts organizing all of the paperwork into a neat pile in front of him so Noctis doesn’t worry over it and then closes the folder so only the little colored sticky notes are visible peeking out from under the edges. 

“Prompto is right. You had all of us quite worried,” Ignis says quietly, not missing the way Noctis flinches.  He hadn’t meant it to come across as chastising, but it doesn’t matter, does it

Worried and horribly hurt, the months after his death and the funeral had been difficult, but adding onto that was a horrific few weeks where Prompto and Gladiolus had been furious with Ignis for not telling them what would happen. That he knew what they were leading him into, that he was somehow complicit in his death. Things were said that were never repeated and not truly meant, but Ignis had hated it all the same, hated the truth of it. He had led Noctis to his death knowing what would likely happen and while Noctis hadn’t exactly hidden it those last few nights, it was one thing to suspect what was coming and another thing entirely to be faced with the reality of it. 

“Okay, uh. Can we...not be weirdly quiet here because I know you guys were talking before I got here.” Noctis adds two teaspoons of sugar to his oatmeal and then seemingly forgets and adds another two. Gladiolus makes a low noise watching it and Ignis realizes suddenly that Noctis was doing it on purpose; Noctis’ lips twitch up into a smile and it looks so good that it almost hurts. “C’mon. I got the story from the doctors and a little bit from Cor when I woke up earlier. I know it’s been a...while, and that you guys have been running things again while I was -- gone.” 

“Yeah, Iggy’s been the main point of contact for basically everything. Like, everything-everything. He’s been handling all of the Crown stuff, all of the organization for the hunters, all the snooty bureaucratic stuff.” Prompto says before anyone else can say anything. Ignis doesn’t _blush_ , he’s far too much in control for something like that, but the tips of his ears warm and he wants to look down. Then, because it’s Prompto and he never knows to leave well enough alone: “So uh. It’s -- just you in there, right?

“ _Prompto_ ,” Ignis says under his breath, chastising, but it’s a question that has been lingering this whole time. There’s been no indication of Ardyn since his ‘death’ so it’s very unlikely something’s slipped past them, but he understands the need to ask. 

“No, it’s fine. It’s just me in here. I felt him die when I did and when I woke up - it just feels...different. I’d know, if he were still in here.” Noctis folds his arms onto the table and starts picking at his oatmeal; Ignis tries his best not to worry about his appetite. No doubt the regimen of drugs, antibiotics and general exhaustion factor into his lack of it. He’ll just check with the doctors to make sure that he has proper vitamins to make up for any lack. “I just..wanted to say thank you guys. For what you did and how fast it was. I thought-- I thought he’d--” 

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence for them to fill in the blanks. They can assume what he thought: locked up in his own head while Ardyn was able to control things and unable to do anything about it. Maybe, given the chance, Noctis would have been able to fight, to resurface and beat him but the odds were not stacked in his favor and they knew that. 

“You’re fine, Noct. We’re just glad that you’re back.” Gladiolus reaches across the table and they knock their fists together gently, a small smile growing on Noctis’ face in response to the familiar gesture

Things aren’t perfect right now, but they’re getting better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I still can't get over that this fucker had 2000 years to plan and yet his whole battle is one of the easiest. You fight demons harder than him trying to get up to him and ARDYN'S BASICALLY A SACK OF DEMONS in a flesh suit. What a waste. Xemnas' battle was harder than that good god. 
> 
> Anyway, one more chapter and then hopefully a nsfw addon because why not! Feedback is always loved, obviously, and thanks so much for all the comments/kudos/etc. I forgot how fun it was to write multi chaptered fic! Also, edited really fast to include the link to [this](https://mistress-light.tumblr.com/post/168650502942/p-o-s-s-i-b-i-l-i-t-i-e-s-inspiration) because it's like 90% of the reason this fic got written.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINISHED aaaa. You ever write something right when you get into a fandom but then you reread it and realize in the 2 months you've been in it, you've changed so many of your opinions? Gosh. I've just finished my 2nd play-through as of last night and it's A LOT y'all. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks again to Kieran for the beta, they're a lifesaver.

Despite Ignis’ best efforts to avoid any sort of conversation about this...thing between them, as nebulous and unspoken as it is, Prompto and Gladiolus are annoyingly adept at shoving the two of them together. Thankfully (or not, depending on his mood) someone always comes to interrupt before they’re able to talk about anything but it’s very clear what they’re doing. It’s been barely two weeks, he doesn’t want to rush things. Or, if he’s being honest with himself - it’s nice to have no answer because the potential being there is better than a full _no, we can't_ , regardless of if it comes from him or Nocti.

As it turns out, though, it’s Noctis who seeks him out for the conversation rather than one of the others meddling. 

Ignis is buried in paperwork (again) in one of the studies that Regis had never really used; he’d always used the one attached to his bedroom in the later years because it was a shorter walk and he was weakening by the day. This one is tucked away in the west tower, a short walk from the main portions of the Citadel, but removed enough that it ensures he’s only bothered for serious things, not minor inconveniences that people seemed to forget an email, text message or phone call would serve just fine for. 

The knock at the door isn’t unwelcome so much as it is a prelude to potential annoyance; Ignis takes a breath to make sure he doesn’t snap - if it’s someone coming to tell him that the delegate from Duscae is wondering just when he’s going to get his final paperwork for the agreement that isn’t due until _three weeks from now_ , he’s going to be a lot less gentle about his response. It’s not, however. When he turns to see who it is - something that still hits him a little hard these days, but hits harder still when he realizes it’s Noctis, up and leaning against the partially open door. 

It’s habit that has him rising in a rush despite the fact that it’s been so long since he’s needed to attend to the prince’s wants. An extra chair is tugged closer to the fireplace and then Ignis makes his way over to Noct, prepared to help him to it if he needs. 

“No-- no, you don’t have to if you’re busy,” Noctis says quietly, all gentle concern and exhaustion. “Prom said that you liked to stay in here because no one bothered you but I-”

“Noct, you are absolutely not a bother, nor have you _ever_  been anything remotely close to one,” Ignis assures smoothly before Noctis has even the slightest chance to follow that up. He is absolutely not any sort of inconvenience and Ignis is positively relishing the idea of being able to fuss over him again because it means it’s further confirmation that Noctis is _alive_. “Come in, let’s close the door before anyone gets any ideas about coming in after.”

When he goes to shut it, he sees a member of the former Kingsglaive posted outside the door and realizes that ah, of course. They may not be equipped with their powers with Noctis so newly back, but that doesn’t mean their jobs have vanished; they’re still needed. A quick nod and Ignis closes the door behind him, pressing a hand to Noctis’ shoulder. He doesn’t push to support him where he once might have. Years of being coddled by the others means that he’s far more likely to allow Noctis his own time to make his way over there with significantly less fussing. The temptation is there, though, nearly overwhelming with each careful step Noctis takes.

“How are you feeling?” Ignis asks before he can help himself. Maybe not done fussing entirely. For a moment, as he’s helping Noctis settle into the chair, he thinks that the prince-- the _king_  might wave it off or act as if it’s nothing.

“Better than before but not great,” Noctis admits quietly. The honesty of it is jarring all on its own; Ignis does his best to hide his surprise and once Noctis is settled, pushes the second chair next to him rather than back at the desk. “They’ve got me on a round the clock watch and are going to declare I’m back once they’re sure there’s no chance of me relapsing or anything happening. Docs warned everyone off of trying to get me to work, too, so that’s...something. Figures the one time I can’t work is when it’s all I want to do.” 

It makes sense. The guards make further sense, too; most likely, they escorted him here and ensured that no one will come to bother them outside of who knows that he’s alive and back. That Noctis was so candid was another concern. Noctis whining and playing up a hurt for attention was familiar - he loved being coddled, and Ignis was terrible about enabling it. Prompto was much the same and Gladiolus was often the rock that balanced them out. _Get up, wuss, it’s a paper cut._ It’s when Noctis is flat and honest about his injuries that it’s well and truly concerning; it means he’s in too much pain to make light of it. 

“Well. I should have you in here more often if it means I’ll buy myself dedicated peace and quiet,” Ignis murmurs, pressing a hand to Nocis’ shoulder on the way past him. “Can I get you anything? I know I have coffee and water in here, but I could send someone to fetch something if you’re hungry.” 

Noctis is considering it which is about all Ignis can ask for right now as he goes to the table to fetch his own cup of coffee and top it off. 

“Coffee, please.” Noctis says with enough relief that Ignis cuts him a look. “I’m allowed to have it, the doctors said so, it’s just whatever they’re giving me in my rooms isn’t...good.” 

“Of course, Noct.” It’s a testament to how long they’ve known each other that Ignis knows to read between the lines and feels himself warm at the praise. _It wasn’t made by you._ He doesn’t do anything special with the coffee, of course, but he supposes whatever they’re giving the king is probably too watered down for either of them. A second cup is poured and he doctors this one within an inch of its life until it’s milky white and so sweet Ignis doesn’t want to think about it. Both cups are set on the tiny decorative table between the chairs and Noctis reaches for his, making a low noise of appreciation once he tastes it. “Better?”

“Perfect,” Noctis sighs, making himself comfortable in the oversized seat. He’s lost weight, which is understandable; his clothes don’t quite hang off of him but Ignis has made a job of studying his charge and can tell the difference. They’ll have to make sure he’s getting enough nutrition and then when he’s well enough for it, get him back into the habit of training and exercising.  Losing so much weight and muscle mass so quickly wasn’t healthy for anyone. “I wanted to talk to you.” 

“Of course,” Ignis says after a pause. He assumed, but isn’t sure if this is a purely social call or social with the hopes of catching up on where everything stands. “I’m almost done preparing your reports; the Council thought it best to hold your first meeting after the doctors have given the all clear for you to start delving back into matters.” 

“I-- no, I know, I’m not...that’s not why I’m here,” Noctis’ brow furrows and his voice goes a little softer. “I wanted to talk about what Ardyn said to you. Back-- earlier. What he said.” 

Oh. It’s that sort of talk. Somehow, he hadn’t anticipated that coming up and he desperately wants to take a look at himself, make sure that everything is in place, that he’s not unkempt and mussed and that his fingers aren’t stained with ink instead of blood. 

“Of course,” he repeats, practically on auto-pilot, not quite sure if he’s really prepared for this conversation. It’s one that must happen; he and Noctis have orbited each other for years, but it only really coalesced into something...more while on the road. Nothing untoward happened; Noctis was still to marry Lady Lunafreya and had his duties and Ignis was dedicated to him in all ways, but they’d talked about what ifs, maybes, a few times. He’d always assumed and been fine with the idea that it would be a love from afar; he’d watch Noctis and Lunafreya have children and grow old together and he would always be there, at their side. Now-- now, everything is different. He’s not sure what to think about what happens next. 

“Maybe I should...go back, explain a little. Gladio explained that you were phasing through things on accident, so he convinced you to try and learn phasing to figure out if it was something the ring granted you, or something else.” Noctis curls both hands around the mug and watches him patiently, looking every inch the king, no longer a boy learning how to be a man. It’s as unsettling as it is relieving. “Only members of the Kingsglaive can use the king’s powers. I wasn’t a king through coronation, and you weren’t technically a Kingsglaive, but somehow, you managed to make both of those things just...not matter. Just like with the ring.” 

It’s pride in Noctis’ voice, Ignis realizes after a moment. Pride that Ignis was able to use the ring and fight Ardyn, pride that Ignis had somehow absorbed powers that took a ritual to transfer, and ages to learn. Noctis’ hand sliding over, settling on top of his where it rests on the coffee cup is a shock; he doesn’t jolt, but it’s a close thing. As if it needs further explained, Noctis continues, “You were the one who pulled me back. I couldn’t manage it, before. It was all you.” Then, with a soft, trembling laugh, Noctis tilts his head back against the chair, bangs sliding into his eyes. He looks so soft and affectionate it’s overwhelming; Ignis’ heart aches, envious, in love, and disbelieving all at once. “Iggy. It’s always been  _ you _ .” 

It’s one thing to suspect his powers were tied to the Kingsglaive and _Noctis_ but it’s something else entirely to have it confirmed - not by Ardyn. To know that he was the one responsible, that Ignis wasn’t insane, that the connection they shared wasn’t something his mind made up to help cope with the overwhelming grief. Before he can say anything in response, Noctis adjusts the hand he slid over Ignis’ but it isn’t to hold. Instead, he draws it up and stares at the scarring on his finger. Truthfully, Ignis forgets it’s there most of the time. It doesn’t ache like the ones on his face and the tightness of burnt skin isn’t quite so noticeable on his finger as it is over his eye. It’s still unsightly, shiny pink against the pale skin of his hand. 

“It was a gamble,” Ignis admits softly, letting Noctis thumb over it in slow, gentle strokes, watching the movement like it’s hypnotic. “I had no way of knowing if it would even work but I- we would have tried anything if we thought it would bring you back.” 

Noctis’ smile is the same. He tilts his head back against the plush chair and his lips curve up, pleased despite the exhaustion. Rather than letting Ignis pull away, though, he lifts their hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the scarring, lingering. “I know you would have.” Not _you all_ , not _you guys_. The choice in words is careful, deliberate, as Noctis watches him. Jarringly, Ignis feels as if he’s the one pinned in his chair, unable to move. “I was...having trouble figuring out how to come back. Ardyn had experience with that kind of power but it was all new to me. Like trying to figure out how to do advanced calculus when you know how addition works, and that’s about it."

Just the mention of the monster’s name is enough to make Ignis want to pitch a fit but he keeps it to a humorless little smile, more a press of his lips together and a slight inclination of his head. There’s no apology needed logically, but -- “Noct, if I’d had any idea I would bring him back with you--” 

“You didn’t,” Noctis says before he can complete the thought, gentle despite Ignis arguably not deserving it. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. It was just...it was supposed to be over. Whatever he did -- the Astrals didn’t expect it, so there was no way to prepare.” 

There are still a thousand questions that he has but it doesn’t feel fair to bombard him when he’s only just gotten up and moving again so he sips his coffee instead and lets Noctis explore his hand to his heart’s content. “It may not have been intentional, but it was still - it still happened.” 

“I know.” Noctis releases his hand, finally and curls his legs to his chest, sipping at the mug in his hands. “But he’s gone. It’s...Ignis, you did the right thing. If I had come back when I was supposed to, he would have had so much power. There would have been no stopping him.” 

That was, of course, the plan. Ignis doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, either. His gut is to say he never intended for Noctis to have to suffer more, especially at Ardyn’s hands, but that’s neither here nor there. He wants to ask what Noctis means about all that power, but he has an idea. 

“I was terrified it wouldn’t work,” Ignis admits before catching himself. Once it’s out there, there’s no taking it back. “But I had to try. You would have done the same for any of us.” 

Noctis’ tiny smile is enough proof that yes, he’s correct. For a few moments, the silence is companionable. Then, Noctis seems to gather himself for whatever he wants to say next. “Whatever the ring, the crystal, the-- everything did to me, I’m not the same anymore. That’s why Ardyn wanted me. Whatever happened in the end pushed all of that power into me. He knew that I’d survive, in some capacity. It’s not so different from the power he wielded. It’s why -- I did what I could, while I was still figuring things out. I could make myself physical for a few moments while I was learning how to control all of that power, but never for long enough to make a difference. I thought...I thought Prom saw me at one point, but when I tried again, I guess not. I just had to do something. Stupid, right?” 

Ignis must be particularly slow because while he’d known that something was off and thought he was hallucinating Noctis all of those times, what’s even worse is realizing all the events he had attributed to one of the others. “You-- _you_  did all of that?” Ardyn had insinuated such, but that had been _Ardyn_. 

Noctis looks vaguely sheepish, like he can’t quite believe he’s admitting to this. “Yeah. Like I said, couldn’t always summon myself for more than few seconds or minutes at a time, but I made it work. Think of it like trying to build a sand castle, but you have to start with each grain of sand. It...takes a while. I think that the only reason it was so much easier with you is because we’re linked, somehow. Not in the same way my dad and his Kingsglaive were, but-- close. Prom and Gladio, too, but in a different way.” 

He can’t dispute the fact; hell, he doesn’t want to dispute it. They are linked, tied together through years of time spent together, through magic, through a connection that never had an actual name but was ever-present. Ignis would know if Noctis ever died, he’s certain of that. In the long ten years of his absence, there had always been a thread that linked them together, something that kept him certain of him still existing. When he’d died, when they’d come upon his body pinned to the throne like a bug against a wall, it hadn’t been a surprise. With the dawn had come the undeniable sense of loss, their connection cleaved in two.

Noctis had been the one watching him all those moments that he felt a pair of eyes on him. Noctis had been the one covering him up on the hard nights, making sure that he had painkillers and water, or that he wasn’t struck by a stray vehicle. The shock is one thing, but it’s not exactly that surprising; he’d never dared to hope. “You-- you couldn’t have written a _note_?” Ignis says before he can stop himself, a little strangled. “You could manage those blasted child proof pill containers but not a letter?”  

For a moment, there’s silence; Noctis has Ignis’ hand lifted to his lips and it’s like he’s working through everything he’d done all at once while Ignis waits and then Noctis is laughing, holding his hand tightly and pressing kisses against it between snickers. “I didn’t -- I wanted to be sure I could actually come _back_. But no, I didn’t think about leaving a _note._ ” 

“You’re hopeless,” Ignis breathes, warmed to his toes with affection for this foolish man. He’s absolutely hopeless, but he’s here and whole and Ignis doesn’t hesitate this time to reach out across the divide between them, curious if he can access Noctis’ armiger, if he can feel the warmth of his magic again. It’s not nearly as strong as it used to be but he can _feel_  it warm and steady, and Ignis breathes out a sigh, relieved. There’s no sign of Ardyn’s taint here, either. A moment later, the magic reaches out to him in turn, sparkling and soft like stars, flickering at the edges of his awareness and when he turns his eyes to Noctis, the other man is smiling at him. They may not have done whatever ritual the king must do to grant his power to the Kingsglaive, but there’s a connection there all the same. It’s new and delicate, fledgling, but growing stronger moment by moment. Ignis has said it before, but it’s worth saying it again. “Welcome home, Noct.”

“Hi,” Noctis says quietly and dares to reach across the gap between them, pressing a hand over Ignis’ own like it belongs there. It does. It’s clear that the push of magic is intentional; Noctis’ too-blue eyes fill with the power of it, going electric and Ignis shudders out a breath, overwhelmed at its intensity for a long moment. It doesn’t feel quite the same as his magic used to. That was a controlled push, like sand spilling through an hourglass at a steady rate. This is something else entirely, a wall of magic that crashes over him like a wave, settling over his skin as if it’s a huge blanket, warm and enveloping and _raw_. For a moment, Ignis can’t breathe through the pressure of it, overwhelmed. 

This is what Ardyn was after, he realizes. The power of kings, of the ring, of the crystal, all of it condensed down into the man next to him. How Noctis doesn’t feel like he’s going to explode with all of this power is impossible to imagine. Just a touch, a taste of it, and Ignis feels as if he could take on anyone and any thing. Maybe this is why the Kingsglaive existed - siphoning off some of the power for the good of their king.  Noctis is a few feet away from him and their only connection is the touch of their hands; anything else, Ignis thinks, would be overwhelming. 

“Noct,” Ignis breathes and a moment later is half-mortified, half-shocked to find his body responding to it in a way he didn’t quite expect, cock twitching in the confines of his pants, skin prickling. He can’t shield against it, doesn’t even know how to start, but a moment later all of it withdraws and he’s left with that single thread connecting them, quiet in the back of his mind. Sheepishly, he clears his throat and settles his book on his lap as if that’ll hide the very clear evidence of physical reaction. “It’s never felt like that before. Not the ring, not using the armiger, none of it.” 

“It’s never been like this before,” Noctis says wryly, blessedly not commenting on something he’s probably all too aware of from the way he’s shifting awkwardly in his chair, too. “I’m still not sure how to use it, but I’ll learn."

It brings up a thousand more questions with no answers because there’s no precedent for this in any of the years past. No king has ever wielded that much raw power and in other hands, Ignis would fear that the bearer of that power would be corrupted by it, similar to how Ardyn had been. Looking at Noctis right now, though, Ignis realizes there’s no danger of that. There’s no blind ambition, no smugness at possessing such a thing. Noctis doesn’t look anything but tired, purple smudges under his eyes, a soft smile on his face. Ignis trusts him with everything that he is. 

“What does this mean for Lucis? For you?” Ignis asks before he can stop himself. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer, horrifically afraid that it means Noctis will have to leave again, to go where the Astrals expect him to be rather than stay by their sides, to be a king like he was supposed to be. He’ll accept whatever it is that Noctis tells him but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. “Lucis needs its king.” 

_I need you_  doesn’t need to be said; he can see the moment that Noctis reads between the lines, understands the meaning behind it. He’s holding Ignis’ hand, stroking his thumb over his knuckles like he’s a worrystone.

“I’m not sure about that. You’ve been handling everything better than anyone else could. You’ve got everyone eating out of your hand, practically.” Noctis takes his hand back, curling it around the mug so he can take a long, slow sip, eyes sliding shut in contentment. “I could leave the kingdom in your hand and know that it would be fine.”

Any other time, Ignis might feel a rush of pride at Noctis’ compliment and blatant admiration, but right now, it feels hollow.  He did it because he had to; of those who survived the ten years of darkness, no one was as close to the crown prince as he was. Gladiolus and Prompto were nearly there, but they had no interest in the finer points of ruling, the former too much a blunt instrument to be swung about, the latter too skittish to even want to consider anything to do with politics. Ignis would continue to do it if he had to, but the idea of losing Noctis again while knowing he was _alive_  and just out of reach was too painful to consider after everything; Ignis is too raw, flayed open by the loss. Evidently his marked silence does something because a moment later, Noctis’ eyes flutter open again and he looks shamed, chastised as he realizes.

“No -- _no_ , Ignis, I’m not leaving. I’m staying right here as long as I possibly can, alright?” It must hurt to move; Noctis moves in slow, measured steps, grimacing at himself as he plants his feet on the ground and then rises up. It’s instinct to follow, to rise in response and help him to wherever he intends to go but he’s not going far. Two hands settle firmly on Ignis’ shoulders, keep him planted in the plush chair and Noctis goes to his knees in front of him. It can’t be comfortable; Ignis wants to protest that he shouldn’t strain himself needlessly, he can grab a _pillow_ , that whatever point he intends to make can be made from a chair, or better, from his bed, resting. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, that’s all I meant. My place is here, picking up where you’ve taken things. Your place, if you want it, is at my side. In whatever form you want that to take.”

There’s still too much to talk about: the status of the kingdom, what exactly the extent Noctis’ powers entail, what they can expect from it, and where all of this leaves them, together, but all of that can come later. 

Right now, Noctis presses his hands to Ignis’ thighs like hot brands, and leans into the slow, careful touch of a hand against his cheek. He’ll need to shave, to trim this up so it’s not quite so ragged, Ignis thinks idly, stroking his thumb over the sharp line of Noctis’ cheek, watching the way that his eyes slide shut again, contentment written in the slope of his shoulders, in the curve of his lips. The king cannot be unkempt.

They need to talk about what this means for them, eventually, but in this moment it doesn’t matter; he doesn’t need to ask whether Ardyn was telling the truth, spitting out Noctis’ feelings like poison instead of a balm. It’s written clear as day in the way Noctis is touching him, intimate in a way that nothing else can be. One hand lifts from his thigh, curls around Ignis’ wrist and leads his hand back so Noctis can press a kiss to his palm, another to his knuckles and then one final one to the scarring the ring left. It feels like a promise, it feels _significant,_  the spill of his magic all around them, crawling over Ignis’ skin. He knows in theory what the Kingsglaive trials require and knows that it ends with the Kingsglaive member accepting a piece of that magic into themselves, opening a connection to their king. There’s a ritual, a procedure for all of it; Ignis had started to study it right before everything went to shit and they left the city. 

Now, he thinks he understands what they meant when they talked about the king sharing his power with them, how it felt like filling a cup to full and the excess spilling out, overwhelming. He feels like he could take on anything that wanted to harm the king and he would be able to do it in an instant, flush with power, with strength. All power given and gained comes with a covenant - for Noctis, it was the loss of his life to bring back the dawn. For Ignis, it was a blood price to use the ring. For this, he can hear a discordant voice, or series of voice layered over each other whispering in his ear. _The power of kings is not to be taken lightly. There is always a price to be paid. Will you pay it_? 

It’s like the world freezes, Noctis still on his knees, looking up at him like he hangs the stars and the moon and Ignis thinks _anything, everything, if it means I can protect him_. That’s not the correct answer, though, that’s not the answer they’re looking for. Slowly, Ignis presses both hands to Noctis’ cheeks and lays a kiss on his forehead, lingering. _With my life, if needed, and without question_ , he whispers, and the world snaps into focus all at once, the bond between them flaring bright as the star that Noctis brought back to life. For a moment, he thinks that Noctis may not be aware of what happened, but his eyes go distant like he’s listening to something and then he turns his attention back to Ignis, smiling slow and sweet.

“Anything you need, Your Majesty,” Ignis promises quietly, reaching his other hand out to stroke it through messy bangs, brushing it out of his eyes. This time, when he leans down, it’s not for a kiss on the forehead. Noctis makes a soft noise and stretches up, both hands winding around Ignis’ neck to tug him in and it’s into the kiss that Ignis promises, “I’m here.” 

“Me too. I’m not going anywhere any time soon,” Noctis murmurs and it’s a promise all on its own, the magic flickering between them like it recognizes the weight behind it, locking their words in place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's IT. 
> 
> Thank you guys for reading and for the comments, they make my day! I'm hoping to have something out for Ignoct week, which'll probably be Oracle!Ignis but like, not happy because I'm incapable of writing fully happy things. There's a whole bunch of other stuff I want to write depending on time. I'm super stoked, though; I'll be at the Distant Worlds Concert in Portland tomorrow, catch me crying over music! 
> 
> Dunno if any of y'all will be at PAX East or Emerald City Comic Con but I'll be there too! You can follow me on twitter [here!](https://twitter.com/RowanRowden)

**Author's Note:**

> comments/kudos loved, obvs, please come scream at me about how good these boys are over [here](https://twitter.com/rowanrowden) or something! Also as a newbie to the fandom, if you guys have any ficrecs or artrecs or discord channels, feel free to let me know so I can dip my toes into everything. :)


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